The Post-Crescent du lieu suivant : Appleton, Wisconsin • 49

raw rO I I lltw rTl tt i. I I a-. iff IT i a II ill 2-i mm fl 1 Hi ft I' lira 4 Mm (nil1 Win, 3 "Mardi Gras is older than New Orleans a Roman Lupercalia also the Saturnalia, an-European tradition that wanders back. directly other Pier Sixer presided over bya temporary or indirectly to such grand blowouts as the. king." a blurred view of the world seen from a spinning carousel If New NEW ORLEANS, La.

(AP) -4Mardi Gras Boom! Ta-Boom! Boom! is a gooey gumbo: Of public spree and private snobbery; of sequincd maskers and stonyfaced strippers; of midnight at Antoine's with champagne and candles and dawn in a and lovers entangled; of curb- EDITOR'S NOTE The view of Mardi Gras is in the eye of the beholder if he's sober enough to see straight. To a kid, it's enchantment; to an innkeeper, it's a bonanza; to Mr. Average Man it's an annual booze break and to some others it's strangling New Orleans. But whatever it is, it's different. to-curb rubble of kids, cans and glass and a black-cowled nun praying at mass; of kings, queens and dukes dressed in rhinestone glitter while the mob down below implores from the litter; of blueblood balls and sidewalk brawls; of debs in silk and fags in drag of the last of the brass bands, old now and bent, and the words of a whore, her body for rent; of the reck of sweet wine puked in an alley and a ride down St.

Charles in the city's last trolley; of blacks in blacker face and skirts made of grass and a Hurricane Special at three bucks a glass: it's a hair-pull and dressup, drinkdown They April 2, 1972 Sunday Post-Crescent El Fischer Relaxes (Well, Sort of) At Resort Hotel and love-up, beer bust and rock fest, an aristocrat's pavane, a Pantagruel's orgy and a child's nirvana: it's a myth made of tinsel, yet a real way of life to those proud of French lineage whether existent or not, proud of their city "That Care Forgot. It happens Boom! once a year. It happens in a city that worries about being Fort Lauderdalized by scruffy kids on the one hand and Houstonized by crass commercialism on the other. And that it happens at all bothers cops who stand 12-hour shifts for 10 days running, street cleaners who have to sweep away 280,000 tons of ground-up gutter litter, French Quarter merchants and residents who have to elbow their way through a wall-to-wall horde of drunk or drugged kids, not to mention the no small number of the city's more thoughtful citizens who think Mardi Gras has bred a snobbish, elite and secret caste system in which a phony royalty toasts itself in champagne and waltzes in stately and private elegance while the mob howls outside the gates and the city's business life goes to hell. Mardi Gras has to be seen, heard, smelled, tasted, drunk, felt, inhaled, danced, marched, shouted and survived to qualify one for a campaign ribbon.

Even then, one's viewpoint depends on -7 being a duke or a king or a queen for a day since they spend all year planning and paying for it One might also include the Jewish viewpoint, which can be quite negative, since the best clubs called krewes don't have Jewish members or guests at their balls. Jewish emigration from town during Mardi Gras is probably the only thing that keeps the crowds from sinking the city beneatji the bayous.) The viewpoints rarely mingle, although there was at least one meeting this year when a hippie type with a whitey-fro hairdo reeled up to a startled tourist complete with suit, camera, wife and two children and said: "Hey, Dad, ya wanna get greased?" "Excuse me?" "Ya know: stoned, zonked." "Er, no, I don't think so, thank you." It can be said on highest authority, however, that a lot of citizenry get zonked during as Tulane anthropologist M. S. Edmonson points out: "New Orleans is a city that knows how to behave as a drunken mob." Quantifying the ingredients of this outdoor orgy is a bit like counting the drops of water in the Mississippi, but some details emerge. The Chamber of Commerce figures $20 million changes Continued On Page 3 Boston marine supply house he did business with for 50 years.

A Seth Thomas OG alarm clock echos the ship's clock from a hutch in the dining -room. A steeple clock from about 1875 is decor in another area. An "old Walnut" kitchen clock from Lynn's grandmother has a place of honor. The Websters enjoy sharing their hobby with others. Lynn talks to antique collectors about what makes an old clock valuable.

She talks with homemakers and club women about ways to showcase their clocks and timepieces. "They're no good stashed away in boxes and drawers." Under domes, in holders, framed, hung, and festooned, they make interesting art arrangements. The Websters' home is decorated with time. To Lynn, time and timepieces offer a special view into history. Early American clocks have wooden works even though European clocks of similar vintage had metal works, she reminds her audiences.

Early America didn't have metal. The railroads were responsible for standard time throughout the country, she says looking at an old railroad watch with its numbered seconds. Once people went to the station to see what time it was. Railroad time was standard from 1880, but the government didn't standardize until 1918. Clocks and the church Reformation are interesting.

Clocks in church towers used to tell people when to pray. When it got up to about seven times a day, they revolted. Then they began putting clocks in towers of public buildings. In a basement workshop, Alan spends happy hours figuring out the function of each clock and watch part. His library of technical books is growing along with Lynn's on antique clocks.

His hobby is restoration of the original works, and if a needed part isn't available from his store, he hand crafts it. The Websters' hobby takes them to antique shows, auctions and sales, and they keep a sharp eye out for watch and clock makers closing out. "We spend a lot of time looking for bits of metal and other materials that will be useful, too," Lynnadded. Talking to collectors, Alan points out the types of mechanisms, almost as (J mi Have a Time-Consuming Hobby whether he saw it through a lorgnette at a society ball, the air-slit of a paddy wagon or the eye-mask of a clown costume. The viewpoints are roughly five: The college crowd, about 50,000 strong, who arrive unshorn and Levi-ed and, eventually, unwashed, to drown in beer, cheap wine, pot and, if they're Jucky, somebody's arms.

Some get lucky. The tourists who jam hotel halls with airplane luggage, ice buckets and each-other because they'd always heard it would be FUN. It can be if you don't mind an un-Phase 2 leap in prices and grew up inside an overbooked 747. The blacks who have their own parallel celebration embodying both the best and the worst of the whites'. The best is the Zulu parade, a takeoff on those of high society whites.

The King of Zulu's courtiers toss gilded coconuts instead of dime-store trash to the crowd and rubbed it in even further one year by dispensing jars of hair straightener. The locals of any color, who dress up in costume on Mardi Gras Day with Mom and the kids and funnel into downtown to watch the spectacle, ride in a truck float decorated by a neighborhood group or march with diminishing directness from bar to bar accompanied by a pickup brass band and a bottomless thirst. The royalty, who take very OSHKOSH Just for fun, the Alan Websters call their husband and wife lecture, "Clock-Wise," when they appear together, as they frequently do, to share their game as timepiece hobbyists. At home their house ticks and sings with clocks, the result of Lynn's decorating and Alan's talent as clock renovator. "The most ignominious end for any clock is to have its works replaced with an electrical fit-up," they maintain.

Both Websters like antiques, but they have to be utilitarian. "We happen to think the old craftsmen turned out better quality," Alan said. "You can see we put our antiques to use, including clocks." "We spend a lot of pleasant evenings with that stereoptican," Lynn contributed. "We hate television." When it comes to timepieces and clocks, their focus is different. "Lynns interest is, I guess, cosmetic.

Mine is mechanical," is the way Alan put it He describes their clock and timepiece collection as neither extensive nor valuable, but interesting. "Call it a heterogenous collection, predominately American. It ranges from a grandfather clock to a century-old beer advertisement paper weight clock." Favorite with both the Websters is the Vienna regulator wall clock, the work of the great Edward Howard about 1850. A pleasant decoration above an antique chest, the clock is due for a change in setting. Lynn is working on a pair of needlework pictures destined for a pair of frames already accenting the clock wall.

The French lady pictures they contain "just don't seem right" for the clock, Lynn explained. She will give it a touch of handwork that seems more suitable. The impressive grandfather clock occupies a niche beside the fireplace. It required extensive restoration, Alan said. "It's only been operating a month or so.

The single hand and the fish design etched on the brass face helped to date the clock as between 1680 and 1695 as did its heavy carved case. "It was made in England, and that kind of carving was done by immigrant Austrians and enjoyed a brief vogue," historian Lynn said. A ship's clock bells the hours. It was a gift to Alan's sea captain father from a GROSSINGER, N.Y. (AP) Bobby Fischer, America's hope for the world chess championship, rushed into the By Ann Hencken Associated Press Wrifer vast, brightly lit dining room at Grossinger's, a giant resort tucked away in the Catskills.

He's been ensconed for weeks at varied as the clocks themselves. "Just the escapement methods alone are fascinating, and the way clock makers festooned their clocks with all types of automata is amazing." Continued on Page 2 The Vienna regulator clock, jewel of the Websters' collection and prized for its age, its con-ditiorrand its sentimental value. til ViP If Ip" -tV i I hi i i I if i 4 -J if -I h- il If I 0" If I1' I the hotel, a sprawling cluster of recreational facilities, Ping Pong tables, pin ball machines, Pepsi dispensers, indoor miniature golf courses, swimming pool, ski slope and convention rooms. At age 29, he's poised for a crack at the world title in chess, a goal since the beginning of his brilliant, but uneven, career. "What time is it?" he asked sitting down at a small table.

He was pale and liis eyes were darker looking than usual. His hair was damp and neatly combed. He wore a blue suit and black tie, printed with galloping red stallions. He'd made the 8 p.m. dinner deadline by one minute.

"He usually comes flying in, the last person in the dining room. He's always on the run," said the dining room hostess. If Fischer's running, it's partly from the tension. He challenges Russian Boris Spaasky for the title in a grueling 24-game match, beginning June 22, in Belgrade, Yugoslavia. The international chess world, has shown extraordinary interest in this match.

Some seven countries bid for it. Usually, there are only two or three bids. Prize money for the match is set at $138,500, with 72Vst per cent to the winner. Fischer beat Tigran Petrosian, Russian ex-world champion, in the semifinals. If he beats Spaasky he will become the first non-Russian to hold the world title in 25 years and the first official American title holder.

This is it. This is the big one for a man who's grown up obsessed with "the complex moves of 32 chessmen around a checkered board. Fischer usually dines alone in Grossinger's banquet hall, filled with family-size tables, fake flowers, joking conventioneers, families with sullen-looking teen-agers and bubbly children in pink crocheted outfits. "The whole theory of a hotel is a giant communal enterprise. But Bobby remains a solitary figure," says a hotel representative.

Solitude can be hard to find in this active, noisy hotel, exuding "fun-time frolic and joie de vivre." A long-time meeting place for celebrities, potentates and politicians, it caters to conventions and arranges special singles weekends. But Fischer finds solitude, threading his way through a group of commercial photographers, with, their blue, convention name tags. They have gathered after dinner around the grand piano to sing, "I Wonder Who's Kissing Her Now." He walks by their exhibits of complex camera equipment and past the here guests are busy drinking RussOl vodka. When Fischer is more relaxed, he's good company quick, funny and interested in other people. But this weekend, he wasn't giving interviews.

He mostly stays in his room, saying in a soft voice, "I gotta study. I gotta study." Continued on Page 1 I I 11 I i -Y An intricately carved grandfather clock, circa 1680, occupies a niche beside a fireplace in the home of the Alan Websters where clocks are an absorbing hobby. (Post-Crescent Photos).