She’ll be going on thirteen in cat years, he’ll be a little over seventy in human terms. She’s in a convalescent home on the West Bank and he’s at home; they both appear to be circling the drain, failing slowly but surely, the treachery of physical forms giving out while the spirit of life fights to remain among us.
For the people that love them, it is a heartbreaking death-watch. It is a wearing down of deep emotions, like being one breath away from bursting into the tears in the face of loss unremitting. The heart remains a weight to carry. The next phone-call may bring news of the end.
This is a Valentine card to them: Verita Thompson and Phil the cat. Hello in there…and goodbye.
I met them both, separately, about eight years ago. They were both strong and alive, full of piss and vinegar, élan, and elegance, vitality and vigor.
Phil was a new rescue from Fairhope, Alabama; brought to New Orleans for a new lease on life. Personable and loving, mischievous and bold, honorable and agile; he soon became the king of the courtyard and a bane to small birds and rodents. Hell, I don’t need to tell you how a big gray lug of a boy tabby can win you over while he establishes his own kingdom (over you, your belongings and surroundings), stealing your heart with love full and pure.
He came to a whistle and a call of his name. He was equally at home in the neighbor’s apartments and often came home late, smelling of tobacco and a good time. The girls called him ‘Phil-boy’. The guys just called him ‘Buddy’. He was part of the pack of critters that stayed through the storm and evacuated to San Francisco and back. He’s been around, now he’s going down.
Two years ago he was diagnosed with FIV and separated from the other cats. Medication was prescribed and Phil was supervised a little more closely.
But wait. Before you might have the nerve to think that Phil was quarantined, let me again tell you how we treat our heroes. Phil still has free range of his kingdom. It was Bob and Pepper that made the adjustments. Pepper, who has been an inside feline…remains that way. Bob, who was Phil’s sidekick was promoted to shop cat and relocated to Toulouse St.
Things remained pretty much status quo until the beginning of November when Phil went into renal failure, after a week’s hospitalization, he was sent home, a shadow of his former shadow. The classic “til one day the old doctor looked at me and said: I can’t do no more for him, Jim” was applied and accepted. So it goes. Phil is now lying in the sun and fading.
Here’s the next part: what do you call a woman who was Humphrey Bogart’s mistress, had two restaurants in Los Angeles (at least one given to her by Howard Hughes), has Henry Mancini’s piano in her living room, wears Chanel suits and has the ability to use language that can make a sailor blush? You know, a little sassy broad, lunching at Galatoire’s in the day and tossing them back on her rounds in the evening? Who is it that can bring a crowd to Claire’s On Conti by the rumor of an appearance? Who is it that said that if Lauren Bacall couldn’t run her out of Hollywood, Katrina couldn’t run her out of New Orleans?
Who is it that you missed by not paying attention to legends living amongst you? Uh, that would be Ms. Verita Thompson.
Verita stands about five foot nothing (in heels); however, when she holds court, she is the center of the universe and the word HUGE doesn’t adequately suffice in application. She has a book that she authored named ‘Bogie And Me’ out of print for twenty five years and still sought after. She ran a saloon across from Antoine’s for a time and flitted between Santa Monica and here for years until…..
Question: what happens if you live long enough? Answer: you get old. The ‘O’ word. The curse of a long life is that your gears start to wear, your bearings get bushed, your oil needs changed more regularly and, although your spirit is still willing, the flesh simply cannot keep up. A mild stroke and a hard fall was enough to put a seal on Verita’s future. What had been a brave ‘fuck you’ life is now the time that the kindness of strangers becomes the reality of her existence. Confined to a wheelchair, fed through a tube and diapered, medicated, not listened to or even noticed in a facility that they mistakenly call a ‘Convalescent Home’. There is no convalescing from this one, Honey.
Last night a waitress that I know told me that she cannot stand waiting on the elderly because they break her heart and bring her to tears with how fragile that they are. Hey, listen up, we are all headed down that same road; if we live long enough.
So, I put it to you: what are you doing with these days of your life? If Verita were your age, she’d be knocking back a tequila with the likes of Gable and Gabor. If it were Phil, he’d be having you for lunch on his personal killing floor.
Well, tough guy, you can spend time on your cell phone, irons in the fire and all them business deals; but, you cannot put real value into a life if you place your dreams on call waiting. February the sixteenth is Verita’s ninetieth birthday. I’ll be at Claire’s On Conti hoisting a few and celebrating what time that we, collectively, have left on this planet. I’ll also be wishing Phil god-speed in whatever reality he may be residing in.
Question: how am I feeling? I’m blessed to be alive and awfully glad to be here. The longer that I live, the more precious my life has become, as I remind myself, often, that there are no ‘do over’ days. Here’s lookin’ at you, Kid.
phil@whereyat.net
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Dear Doctor I'm Damaged
“When sex, drugs or Rock and Roll are no longer the answer, my friend, clearly the question is bigger than both of us” my mentor was in the habit of saying. Of course, he was also in the habit of remarking that: “today was the first day of the rest of my miserable f_cking life!”
Speaking of my existence (miserable or not): the question now is: how do I change ennui to élan or, how to lift the mantle of blues that The New Year traditionally brings; and/or: what do you do when the gumbo of your life tastes flat? No pep in your step, no glide in your stride, no gut in your strut and no woogie in your boogie? Or, for Chrissakes, ALL OF THE ABOVE!!!
Qu’est-ce c’est when there’s no more shelter in you mother’s little helper?
I think that it’s time for a trip. You know me; there’s no problem so big that I can’t run away from, and if I don’t take a break….I’m going to have a problem. I’m going to have more than my usual challenges (that which I can overcome), I’m going to go into negative land, as a friend calls it, and become hard to live with and around.
So, what’s got me down? What am I rebelling against? Name it, I can’t. It’s just everything these days seems to conspire to piss me off and no sooner than I get my blood pressure back under control than, as the man says, “BAM!!”
Am I going to give you a hundred and twenty examples of stuff that happens? Shall I tell you about my nineteenth nervous breakdown? Noooo, I could… but I’m not going to.
Instead, I’m going to point you to the way out of this asylum that we call home. By the way, I truly believe that things would be better if the inmates were running the asylum. That aint happening, so the get-a-clue phone says: “make like a tree.…”
We’re going to London and Paris the first two weeks in January. This is not something that we can afford to do; but, it’s something that we can’t afford not to do. Why London and Paris, you may ask? Culcha dawlin’! And distraction. And it will be less expensive in January, and it’s between the busy Christmas season and the busy Mardi Gras season. And if you need to ask that question again---it might be time for you to consider therapy.
Consider this: they are both cities that are a lot like New Orleans is supposed to be; charming, quaint and with a fun mixture of visitors and working stiffs, where one street off the beaten path will put you into someone’s neighborhood. There’s good food to be found and shops, galleries and museums. The folks there are not overly gregarious nor are they rude; and the thing that strikes me most there is tha, pretty much, everybody is content with their station in life. And, add to that, they were both once great cities, like us, and they are both great walking towns (with rivers). Oh, they speak funny over there too… like we do.
There the similarities end. New Orleans has, from the beginning, been Europe’s bastard child; wild reckless and irreverent. Spoiled. We are the eternal adolescent, playing dress up and never cleaning up our rooms or doing our homework. Staying out late and coming home smelling of booze and sex. Greasy kid stuff in our hair and blood on the saddle. You can’t live here and not notice. If London and Paris are like that, I swear, I will not notice.
The Tate Modern has opened since last I was in London and I want to do some touristy things while I’m there this time; no phone, no pool, no pets. We’ll get to Paris via that speed-ball of a train that goes under the English Channel and emerges in the French countryside like a bat out of hell. Paris is so lovely that it makes me want to smoke cigarettes, keep my hands in the pockets of my unpressed trousers and slouch around. Guess where I would really like to live more than New Orleans?
Oh, I’m not through living in New Orleans for a while; but, that’s something that can change with the next mugging, murder or mayhem on my street. The next time that I step around body waste, litter, or the contents of someone’s drunken stomach might just put me over the edge. The next time that I read about someone’s child taking the life of someone’s child or the indictment of another elected official or the next reaming that we’re going to take because it’s our turn in the pork barrel, I just might be ready to kiss this third world country farewell.
I’m sure that in the future, in my own time I will be ready to miss New Orleans; however, not now. UNLESS----if somehow, someway an opportunity to relocate across the pond occurred, I’d be out of here like a shot. Watch my tail-lights gleam. Rollin’ like those tumbling dice; sixes, sevens and nines! Bon jour my honey, bon jour my baby, bon jour my rag-time gal; send me a kiss…by wire!
It’s that or medication. Or a glimmer of hope, a show of promise, a hint, an allegation, a rumor of impending recovery. So far, that’s not happening either, the homeless numbers are off the chart, our city services are pitiful at best and I’m not getting any younger or more tolerant of ignorance.
Last Saturday while strolling down Royal Street with a glass of champagne, going from one art gallery reception to another gallery opening on an unseasonably warm evening, everything was right with the world. What we need, in a perfect world, is that we get our city mobilized 24/7 until we’re up to snuff, wake up to what century we live in, stop sniveling and get the !@#$%^&* to work, do our jobs and stop taking advantage of each other. In other words, like the Joker said: “What this city needs… is an enema!”
Speaking of my existence (miserable or not): the question now is: how do I change ennui to élan or, how to lift the mantle of blues that The New Year traditionally brings; and/or: what do you do when the gumbo of your life tastes flat? No pep in your step, no glide in your stride, no gut in your strut and no woogie in your boogie? Or, for Chrissakes, ALL OF THE ABOVE!!!
Qu’est-ce c’est when there’s no more shelter in you mother’s little helper?
I think that it’s time for a trip. You know me; there’s no problem so big that I can’t run away from, and if I don’t take a break….I’m going to have a problem. I’m going to have more than my usual challenges (that which I can overcome), I’m going to go into negative land, as a friend calls it, and become hard to live with and around.
So, what’s got me down? What am I rebelling against? Name it, I can’t. It’s just everything these days seems to conspire to piss me off and no sooner than I get my blood pressure back under control than, as the man says, “BAM!!”
Am I going to give you a hundred and twenty examples of stuff that happens? Shall I tell you about my nineteenth nervous breakdown? Noooo, I could… but I’m not going to.
Instead, I’m going to point you to the way out of this asylum that we call home. By the way, I truly believe that things would be better if the inmates were running the asylum. That aint happening, so the get-a-clue phone says: “make like a tree.…”
We’re going to London and Paris the first two weeks in January. This is not something that we can afford to do; but, it’s something that we can’t afford not to do. Why London and Paris, you may ask? Culcha dawlin’! And distraction. And it will be less expensive in January, and it’s between the busy Christmas season and the busy Mardi Gras season. And if you need to ask that question again---it might be time for you to consider therapy.
Consider this: they are both cities that are a lot like New Orleans is supposed to be; charming, quaint and with a fun mixture of visitors and working stiffs, where one street off the beaten path will put you into someone’s neighborhood. There’s good food to be found and shops, galleries and museums. The folks there are not overly gregarious nor are they rude; and the thing that strikes me most there is tha, pretty much, everybody is content with their station in life. And, add to that, they were both once great cities, like us, and they are both great walking towns (with rivers). Oh, they speak funny over there too… like we do.
There the similarities end. New Orleans has, from the beginning, been Europe’s bastard child; wild reckless and irreverent. Spoiled. We are the eternal adolescent, playing dress up and never cleaning up our rooms or doing our homework. Staying out late and coming home smelling of booze and sex. Greasy kid stuff in our hair and blood on the saddle. You can’t live here and not notice. If London and Paris are like that, I swear, I will not notice.
The Tate Modern has opened since last I was in London and I want to do some touristy things while I’m there this time; no phone, no pool, no pets. We’ll get to Paris via that speed-ball of a train that goes under the English Channel and emerges in the French countryside like a bat out of hell. Paris is so lovely that it makes me want to smoke cigarettes, keep my hands in the pockets of my unpressed trousers and slouch around. Guess where I would really like to live more than New Orleans?
Oh, I’m not through living in New Orleans for a while; but, that’s something that can change with the next mugging, murder or mayhem on my street. The next time that I step around body waste, litter, or the contents of someone’s drunken stomach might just put me over the edge. The next time that I read about someone’s child taking the life of someone’s child or the indictment of another elected official or the next reaming that we’re going to take because it’s our turn in the pork barrel, I just might be ready to kiss this third world country farewell.
I’m sure that in the future, in my own time I will be ready to miss New Orleans; however, not now. UNLESS----if somehow, someway an opportunity to relocate across the pond occurred, I’d be out of here like a shot. Watch my tail-lights gleam. Rollin’ like those tumbling dice; sixes, sevens and nines! Bon jour my honey, bon jour my baby, bon jour my rag-time gal; send me a kiss…by wire!
It’s that or medication. Or a glimmer of hope, a show of promise, a hint, an allegation, a rumor of impending recovery. So far, that’s not happening either, the homeless numbers are off the chart, our city services are pitiful at best and I’m not getting any younger or more tolerant of ignorance.
Last Saturday while strolling down Royal Street with a glass of champagne, going from one art gallery reception to another gallery opening on an unseasonably warm evening, everything was right with the world. What we need, in a perfect world, is that we get our city mobilized 24/7 until we’re up to snuff, wake up to what century we live in, stop sniveling and get the !@#$%^&* to work, do our jobs and stop taking advantage of each other. In other words, like the Joker said: “What this city needs… is an enema!”
April Fool
People that want money from me come at me from all different directions and are all on different schedules. My bills arrive in my mailbox all on different days. Also, they are all due on different days, which has me at my checkbook three or four times a week, at the post box three or four times a week and at my mail box every day. I’m thinking ‘some kind of conspiracy’. I’m thinking that they’re trying to drive me nuts…well, it’s too late.
Do you know what happens if you check your mail, say, once a week? When you look at how much the postman has managed to cram in there you just know that there’s a late fee lurking. And forget about waiting until the last possible day to post a bill. Of course, that’s the very day that you get the next bill from the very same people. You just cannot catch a break.
The fact of the matter is, that, if all my bills came at once, my life would be easier but my brain would probably go into the ‘deer in the headlight’ zone. I shudder to think of how much money I put out every month, I really don’t want to know, not all at once at least. I do know that it is all the money I make and then some.
Talk about not catching a break; I saw a mouse that had gotten that snap across the neck in one of those ‘look! Here’s some plastic cheese!’ affairs. His little hand was still outstretched wanting and wishing for that piece of orange plastic. The perfect picture of the April Fool.
You, or rather we, April Fools know who we are. We’re the ones waiting to inhale and exhale; waiting for our agent to call; the winning daily double; our lucky day; Hell to freeze over. We’re already aware that the concepts of winning or losing are nebulous at best and we’re pretty much happy if we can cop a draw.
Are you looking for an even playing field? Do you really believe that the check is in the mail? Good times are just around the corner? There is no recession? This year will be better than last year? That there is really a Department Of Happy Endings? April Fool.
Okay, the April Fool is a little naive, the April Fool still believes in love no matter how many times they have gotten their heart broken. The April Fool believes that there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and every cloud does have a silver lining. That’s why we set aside the first day of April to celebrate them (us, you, me).
All Fools Day is celebrated (if you can call it celebrating) around the world. In France they’re called Poisson d’Avril, in Scotland they’re referred to as April-gowks (cuckoos). At one time, the last week in March into the first couple of days of April was when the New Year was celebrated, the time of the vernal equinox. A lot of people were slow at hearing about the change (1582, go figure), so, those in the know decided to play tricks on them, pretending it was the New Year and generally pulling wool over they’re eyes and confusing them and stuff like that; until the day has generally degenerated into what we have now: a day dedicated to embarrassing the gullible. That’s me…the gullible.
Let’s see, who else could be called an April Fool? Let’s go down a list: do you, or have you ever, believed in organized government, The Road Home, the Army Corps of Engineers, FEMA, or the ability of someone up for election who will take the stars from the sky and put them back into your eyes?
‘See a pin and pick it up…that means all day you’ll have good luck’. “I’m looking over a four-leaf clover that I overlooked before”. “I’m siiiiiiiiiiiingin’ in the rain!!!!!!!!!!!” Etc. etc. etc. Sound familiar?
How many times have you played that game where you’ve bought your lottery ticket and before the numbers are even drawn, you have already decided where you will spend your winnings?
Hollywood has made a lot of money on movies for and about April Fools. Boy meets girl, they fall in love, girl finds out something and they break up.
The boy goes into the Army and is shipped off to fight in an unjust war. The girl stays at home and cries. The boy gets a bullet, which stays lodged in some obscure part of his body. The girl is in an automobile crash (not her fault). The little dog gets stolen by terrorists and is being set up to be a suicide bomber. The father (did we mention the father…a retired firefighter, blind since birth) and the mother (who makes the best gol-durn tuna casserole in the world!) are worried sick and the mortgage is overdue.
The girl is forced to work on the first floor of a honky tonk saloon (she just can’t make it up the stairs) and the boy’s buddies check him out of the hospital where the male nurse has a crush on him (and him and him and him).
The boys go to the honky tonk saloon and the boy sees the girl and naturally thinks the worst and flees. The girl sees this and rushes after him (not easy with her crutches, but he’s in a wheelchair--- and here comes Fido!!!) Meanwhile….you see where this is going? Not a dry eye in the house.
Well I say that the April Fool is being maligned and castigated unjustly. Think of it this way; were it not for us there would be no other holidays! Who else would celebrate Valentines Day, Mother’s Day, Christmas…. Easter?
So, here’s your assignment: think of some cool (non aggressive) tricks for All Fool’s Day, like asking someone if they knew that the word ‘gullible’ was being taken out of dictionaries, and get ready to be fooled yourself. When a prank is pulled on you, even when you know it, fall for it and laugh like you don’t have a lick of sense. Did you know that it’s April Fool’s Day today?
Comments, questions, gossip? phil@whereyat.com
Do you know what happens if you check your mail, say, once a week? When you look at how much the postman has managed to cram in there you just know that there’s a late fee lurking. And forget about waiting until the last possible day to post a bill. Of course, that’s the very day that you get the next bill from the very same people. You just cannot catch a break.
The fact of the matter is, that, if all my bills came at once, my life would be easier but my brain would probably go into the ‘deer in the headlight’ zone. I shudder to think of how much money I put out every month, I really don’t want to know, not all at once at least. I do know that it is all the money I make and then some.
Talk about not catching a break; I saw a mouse that had gotten that snap across the neck in one of those ‘look! Here’s some plastic cheese!’ affairs. His little hand was still outstretched wanting and wishing for that piece of orange plastic. The perfect picture of the April Fool.
You, or rather we, April Fools know who we are. We’re the ones waiting to inhale and exhale; waiting for our agent to call; the winning daily double; our lucky day; Hell to freeze over. We’re already aware that the concepts of winning or losing are nebulous at best and we’re pretty much happy if we can cop a draw.
Are you looking for an even playing field? Do you really believe that the check is in the mail? Good times are just around the corner? There is no recession? This year will be better than last year? That there is really a Department Of Happy Endings? April Fool.
Okay, the April Fool is a little naive, the April Fool still believes in love no matter how many times they have gotten their heart broken. The April Fool believes that there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and every cloud does have a silver lining. That’s why we set aside the first day of April to celebrate them (us, you, me).
All Fools Day is celebrated (if you can call it celebrating) around the world. In France they’re called Poisson d’Avril, in Scotland they’re referred to as April-gowks (cuckoos). At one time, the last week in March into the first couple of days of April was when the New Year was celebrated, the time of the vernal equinox. A lot of people were slow at hearing about the change (1582, go figure), so, those in the know decided to play tricks on them, pretending it was the New Year and generally pulling wool over they’re eyes and confusing them and stuff like that; until the day has generally degenerated into what we have now: a day dedicated to embarrassing the gullible. That’s me…the gullible.
Let’s see, who else could be called an April Fool? Let’s go down a list: do you, or have you ever, believed in organized government, The Road Home, the Army Corps of Engineers, FEMA, or the ability of someone up for election who will take the stars from the sky and put them back into your eyes?
‘See a pin and pick it up…that means all day you’ll have good luck’. “I’m looking over a four-leaf clover that I overlooked before”. “I’m siiiiiiiiiiiingin’ in the rain!!!!!!!!!!!” Etc. etc. etc. Sound familiar?
How many times have you played that game where you’ve bought your lottery ticket and before the numbers are even drawn, you have already decided where you will spend your winnings?
Hollywood has made a lot of money on movies for and about April Fools. Boy meets girl, they fall in love, girl finds out something and they break up.
The boy goes into the Army and is shipped off to fight in an unjust war. The girl stays at home and cries. The boy gets a bullet, which stays lodged in some obscure part of his body. The girl is in an automobile crash (not her fault). The little dog gets stolen by terrorists and is being set up to be a suicide bomber. The father (did we mention the father…a retired firefighter, blind since birth) and the mother (who makes the best gol-durn tuna casserole in the world!) are worried sick and the mortgage is overdue.
The girl is forced to work on the first floor of a honky tonk saloon (she just can’t make it up the stairs) and the boy’s buddies check him out of the hospital where the male nurse has a crush on him (and him and him and him).
The boys go to the honky tonk saloon and the boy sees the girl and naturally thinks the worst and flees. The girl sees this and rushes after him (not easy with her crutches, but he’s in a wheelchair--- and here comes Fido!!!) Meanwhile….you see where this is going? Not a dry eye in the house.
Well I say that the April Fool is being maligned and castigated unjustly. Think of it this way; were it not for us there would be no other holidays! Who else would celebrate Valentines Day, Mother’s Day, Christmas…. Easter?
So, here’s your assignment: think of some cool (non aggressive) tricks for All Fool’s Day, like asking someone if they knew that the word ‘gullible’ was being taken out of dictionaries, and get ready to be fooled yourself. When a prank is pulled on you, even when you know it, fall for it and laugh like you don’t have a lick of sense. Did you know that it’s April Fool’s Day today?
Comments, questions, gossip? phil@whereyat.com
June Juleps
Boy, the Olympic torch didn’t stand a chance this year. It was a case of ‘Send in the next frothing self-incendiary activist!’ Talk about raining on somebody’s parade! Have you followed this? Harried all the way across Europe and then, get this, flown from Paris to San Francisco, put up in a major hotel with no less than six decoy/replacements and probably sent across the Pacific in a nuclear submarine, disguised as a pregnant geisha with garlic breath. If I was the torch I would have just said “drop me off in New Orleans, I’d rather sip a PBR at Parkway and shake my booty to Kermit!”
Paraskevidkatriaphobia is something you may have to deal with this month; however, Dr. Donald Dossey reports that when you can pronounce the word you will be cured. And I always thought the term was friggatriskaidekophia. Silly me, and by the way, those words are not describing exotic Greek pastries.
Well, optimism abounds (not!) here in the Quarter where the hurricane season kicks off with dire warnings added to an unreliable economic future. The convention arena participants will see their travel insurance double, gas prices will make it financially unreasonable for short trips in and out of the city, and the merchants will be jerked around by the city’s tourist agencies that promise pie in the sky and the next wave of free spending tourists that never show up.
In the face of all that, there are still new businesses that decide to buck the odds and stake a claim as a real French Quarter Shop owner.
As a bookshop co-owner in the thick of it, I can tell you about my neighbor shops that have hung in there, a lot of times working seven days a week for months on end. The Glorias and the Gingers and the Jasons who came back knowing how hard a row it’s been, is and by looks of it, will be to gain traction on the treadmill in the small merchant financial gymnasium.
Anybody looked around the Quarter lately? Shops that didn’t make it back from the storm still shuttered, old businesses that came back leaving for the promise of a better life on Magazine Street or just folding their tents, like the Arabs of old and slipping off in the night. Two small grocery stores gone, the only hardware store considering selling, the shoemaker that never came back, galleries having liquidation sales and restaurants still on partial operating schedules.
With rents either out of control or at least, unreasonable, it’s hard to find a small start up entrepreneur willing to risk their shorts to give it (business) a go. Unless you have a landlord like we do, most of them are unreasonable, illogical and/or immovable on their attitudes and concepts of what is best for the French Quarter. And I can tell you from firsthand knowledge, some are squarely immoral in their business philosophies. But that’s another story.
As far as living in the Quarter goes: the fact is that, with two thousand buildings sharing a mere square mile, it does seems a trifle weird that we have less than four thousand residents; that is, until you look up to see how little use there is being made of properties above shops and how many living spaces have been turned over to condominiums owned by out of state part timers. It’s all fun and games until you look for a real post office, a gas station, baby wipes, auto parts or anything second hand. You go up Magazine for that stuff (or out to the ‘burbs) where the placement of a plant, flag, sign or sandwich board is not taken as much of an issue, there’s adequate street lighting and the parking Nazis aren’t nearly so militant.
Well hope springs eternal, and here comes a newbie named Jen at the freshly opened Lost And Found who has decided to cast her fate, fortune and future to Chartres Street, the kindness of strangers and faith in the uniqueness of her inventory She is joining the ranks of us gamblers of commerce that have staked our claim to the successes of our enterprises. Welcome.
I am a believer in the value of neighborhoods and the worth of likeminded and like suited human enclaves. The areas that America, both corporate and political are trying to have us abandon. I feel warm when a person on the street is someone that I can hail, wave to…and/or hug. I’m a sucker for anyone who knows me by name, face or whatever little reputation that I have left. And so, I play my part as well… I’m real picky as to where I spend my money, where I purchase my gifts, where I eat my meals and who I deal with. Just like you, right?
Face it, the little guy in this country is taking a beating. Our economy is not geared for gifted starry eyed would be up and comers, and certainly not in the French Quarter if in New Orleans at all. Hell, us crusty hard nosers are being tested every day. We applaud newcomers for having faith and the willingness to keep it.
Economically the facts are: rents are through the roof, leases are generally short term, tenants rights are nil. You cannot afford to hire staff that lives locally because the working stiff needs to be able to pay rent (not easy for a ten dollar an hour guy to pay a thousand a month for rent) and with gas prices… well?
Say I was the most talented cook in the world, made my bones in some class joints and was ready to spread my wings and my message; what’s my next move? Not New Orleans. Back in the day it was affordable; I know because I did it--- not once but twice, because I could afford to do what I wanted to and not have to prostitute (yes I said that) my food because the landlord wanted a pound of flesh every month. How many businesses can say that today?
Your assignment this month is to pronounce paraskevidekatriaphobia three times and to pray for an infusion of sanity and a safe hurricane season. There’s no place like home. Comments? plamancusa@aol.com
Paraskevidkatriaphobia is something you may have to deal with this month; however, Dr. Donald Dossey reports that when you can pronounce the word you will be cured. And I always thought the term was friggatriskaidekophia. Silly me, and by the way, those words are not describing exotic Greek pastries.
Well, optimism abounds (not!) here in the Quarter where the hurricane season kicks off with dire warnings added to an unreliable economic future. The convention arena participants will see their travel insurance double, gas prices will make it financially unreasonable for short trips in and out of the city, and the merchants will be jerked around by the city’s tourist agencies that promise pie in the sky and the next wave of free spending tourists that never show up.
In the face of all that, there are still new businesses that decide to buck the odds and stake a claim as a real French Quarter Shop owner.
As a bookshop co-owner in the thick of it, I can tell you about my neighbor shops that have hung in there, a lot of times working seven days a week for months on end. The Glorias and the Gingers and the Jasons who came back knowing how hard a row it’s been, is and by looks of it, will be to gain traction on the treadmill in the small merchant financial gymnasium.
Anybody looked around the Quarter lately? Shops that didn’t make it back from the storm still shuttered, old businesses that came back leaving for the promise of a better life on Magazine Street or just folding their tents, like the Arabs of old and slipping off in the night. Two small grocery stores gone, the only hardware store considering selling, the shoemaker that never came back, galleries having liquidation sales and restaurants still on partial operating schedules.
With rents either out of control or at least, unreasonable, it’s hard to find a small start up entrepreneur willing to risk their shorts to give it (business) a go. Unless you have a landlord like we do, most of them are unreasonable, illogical and/or immovable on their attitudes and concepts of what is best for the French Quarter. And I can tell you from firsthand knowledge, some are squarely immoral in their business philosophies. But that’s another story.
As far as living in the Quarter goes: the fact is that, with two thousand buildings sharing a mere square mile, it does seems a trifle weird that we have less than four thousand residents; that is, until you look up to see how little use there is being made of properties above shops and how many living spaces have been turned over to condominiums owned by out of state part timers. It’s all fun and games until you look for a real post office, a gas station, baby wipes, auto parts or anything second hand. You go up Magazine for that stuff (or out to the ‘burbs) where the placement of a plant, flag, sign or sandwich board is not taken as much of an issue, there’s adequate street lighting and the parking Nazis aren’t nearly so militant.
Well hope springs eternal, and here comes a newbie named Jen at the freshly opened Lost And Found who has decided to cast her fate, fortune and future to Chartres Street, the kindness of strangers and faith in the uniqueness of her inventory She is joining the ranks of us gamblers of commerce that have staked our claim to the successes of our enterprises. Welcome.
I am a believer in the value of neighborhoods and the worth of likeminded and like suited human enclaves. The areas that America, both corporate and political are trying to have us abandon. I feel warm when a person on the street is someone that I can hail, wave to…and/or hug. I’m a sucker for anyone who knows me by name, face or whatever little reputation that I have left. And so, I play my part as well… I’m real picky as to where I spend my money, where I purchase my gifts, where I eat my meals and who I deal with. Just like you, right?
Face it, the little guy in this country is taking a beating. Our economy is not geared for gifted starry eyed would be up and comers, and certainly not in the French Quarter if in New Orleans at all. Hell, us crusty hard nosers are being tested every day. We applaud newcomers for having faith and the willingness to keep it.
Economically the facts are: rents are through the roof, leases are generally short term, tenants rights are nil. You cannot afford to hire staff that lives locally because the working stiff needs to be able to pay rent (not easy for a ten dollar an hour guy to pay a thousand a month for rent) and with gas prices… well?
Say I was the most talented cook in the world, made my bones in some class joints and was ready to spread my wings and my message; what’s my next move? Not New Orleans. Back in the day it was affordable; I know because I did it--- not once but twice, because I could afford to do what I wanted to and not have to prostitute (yes I said that) my food because the landlord wanted a pound of flesh every month. How many businesses can say that today?
Your assignment this month is to pronounce paraskevidekatriaphobia three times and to pray for an infusion of sanity and a safe hurricane season. There’s no place like home. Comments? plamancusa@aol.com
Michael
“Michael…come down and talk to me”. Up ahead a member of New Orleans finest is calling up to a second floor balcony, gun drawn and held behind his back. Quietly in the hood, the streets are blocked by flashing blue moonbeams, no sirens, as Michael pokes his head out and says something soft and incoherent. Michael has closely cropped hair, a gaunt composure and blood running down his arm. I’ve just picked up a sandwich and I’m headed back to work. I check to make sure my van isn’t in the line of fire and redirect my steps to avoid Michael, the cops and any drama that might be going down. Here comes Michael’s landlord rushing down the street waving the keys like he’s ringing a bell; I’m sure that he’s only trying to avoid his door being kicked in, it doesn’t appear that anyone really gives a shit about Michael but the man in blue with the gun.
But, you know, that’s the way it is in the city. Lovers walk connected at the hip, taxis prowl the Rue Dumaine looking for fares, a drunk stumbles into the glaring sunlight and Michael’s situation is unfolding around him like a urine stain on the fabric of his life.
One of the things that I don’t like about the nowadays of my life is the apparent necessity of making sure that I have one eye on the road and the other eye looking over my shoulder, almost sure that trouble will sneak up on me unless I stay alert. There was a time when I could be slow and stupid and breeze along immune to negative happenstance, blissfully ignorant and comfortably numb in a cloud of naiveté. Then again, at that time I rarely read newspapers, didn’t worry about a job, rent or where my next meal was coming from. All of that seemed to be taking care of itself; it seemed like all I had to do was ‘do my thing’ and the universe took care of the details. Cool, huh? I mean, I did work, I paid rent and was definitely not malnourished, the point is that at one time I didn’t think about those things being so strenuous.
Back… thirty- five years ago or so… I had a man come to me for a job and flat out told me that he wouldn’t work for less than $4.50 an hour. Of course we were paying that, four-fifty was the coin of the realm going rate for any reputable house of employment. Why do I mention this seemingly worthless piece of information? It’s not just another ‘when I was younger’ tale, it is a point of reference as to what is making life difficult here.
Back when I was paying cooks in my employ less than what minimum wage is now, a person could live on four frigging fifty an hour! AND my point is that three and a half decades later the cost of living has not kept in line with the average wage being paid. Even at three times the wages (which is lower than the norm) the cost of keeping my head above water (no pun intended) is tenfold what it was. And that, my friend bites the big one. In a manner of speaking, when someone tells you: “you’re doing a fine job, whatever they’re paying you is not enough” they couldn’t be closer to the truth than if they said: “ a snake’s belt slips because he has no hips” but that’s neither here nor there. Face it, Buddy: you’re sweating your cajones off while the fat cat still skims the cream from the top of the pitcher. And it is not that the cost of living has gone up, the fact is you’re not getting paid enough to cover that expense.
I think about that when I hit the ticket booth of the Jazz Fest. Usually with a “the price is WHAT???” And then I turn into my parents with the ‘I remember when blah blah blah and phone calls were only a nickel blah blah and who’s getting all that money and why can’t I bring my own sandwich etceteras’.
Yes, it is going to cost me at least a hundred dollars a day if I’m going to have my kind of fun at the Fair Grounds. No shit, I don’t come cheap and I intend to have big fun spending money I don’t make on the best time of year that anyone with warm blood in their veins could have in this city. And I know that there are lots of folks that the Fest is just not for ---and that’s good… for them.
But, you know what? I’m going to go out every day that I can! That’s right, cash in the chips, raid the piggy bank and to hell with the housework… I’m going to the Fest!!! And unlike most everything else in this crazy life of ours, it’s going to be worth every penny that I’m parting with!
I know that in years past that I’ve written about The New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival in terms of what to wear, who to hear, how to avoid the crowd and still find a reasonably clean rest room in my thousand word missives. Not so this season I’m not. So? This is this ‘what up’ for this year:
The Jazz Fest is probably the best time in your otherwise stressful life that you are going to have and still remain vertical. The food, the music, the people, and the atmosphere continues to rock me, every year, since I was paying line cooking dogs four-fifty an hour.
You know, you walk through those gates, the world outside goes away and you (at least I do) forget for eight hours all the other stuff that I have to do and not once look back over my shoulder unless it’s to catch another glimpse of some hot number who’s mama let her get out of the house wearing that outfit.
In what has become my personal tradition, this year I’ll raise my first beer and wish a good god bless to everyone that can’t quite make it, where ever they may be. And one for Michael.
But, you know, that’s the way it is in the city. Lovers walk connected at the hip, taxis prowl the Rue Dumaine looking for fares, a drunk stumbles into the glaring sunlight and Michael’s situation is unfolding around him like a urine stain on the fabric of his life.
One of the things that I don’t like about the nowadays of my life is the apparent necessity of making sure that I have one eye on the road and the other eye looking over my shoulder, almost sure that trouble will sneak up on me unless I stay alert. There was a time when I could be slow and stupid and breeze along immune to negative happenstance, blissfully ignorant and comfortably numb in a cloud of naiveté. Then again, at that time I rarely read newspapers, didn’t worry about a job, rent or where my next meal was coming from. All of that seemed to be taking care of itself; it seemed like all I had to do was ‘do my thing’ and the universe took care of the details. Cool, huh? I mean, I did work, I paid rent and was definitely not malnourished, the point is that at one time I didn’t think about those things being so strenuous.
Back… thirty- five years ago or so… I had a man come to me for a job and flat out told me that he wouldn’t work for less than $4.50 an hour. Of course we were paying that, four-fifty was the coin of the realm going rate for any reputable house of employment. Why do I mention this seemingly worthless piece of information? It’s not just another ‘when I was younger’ tale, it is a point of reference as to what is making life difficult here.
Back when I was paying cooks in my employ less than what minimum wage is now, a person could live on four frigging fifty an hour! AND my point is that three and a half decades later the cost of living has not kept in line with the average wage being paid. Even at three times the wages (which is lower than the norm) the cost of keeping my head above water (no pun intended) is tenfold what it was. And that, my friend bites the big one. In a manner of speaking, when someone tells you: “you’re doing a fine job, whatever they’re paying you is not enough” they couldn’t be closer to the truth than if they said: “ a snake’s belt slips because he has no hips” but that’s neither here nor there. Face it, Buddy: you’re sweating your cajones off while the fat cat still skims the cream from the top of the pitcher. And it is not that the cost of living has gone up, the fact is you’re not getting paid enough to cover that expense.
I think about that when I hit the ticket booth of the Jazz Fest. Usually with a “the price is WHAT???” And then I turn into my parents with the ‘I remember when blah blah blah and phone calls were only a nickel blah blah and who’s getting all that money and why can’t I bring my own sandwich etceteras’.
Yes, it is going to cost me at least a hundred dollars a day if I’m going to have my kind of fun at the Fair Grounds. No shit, I don’t come cheap and I intend to have big fun spending money I don’t make on the best time of year that anyone with warm blood in their veins could have in this city. And I know that there are lots of folks that the Fest is just not for ---and that’s good… for them.
But, you know what? I’m going to go out every day that I can! That’s right, cash in the chips, raid the piggy bank and to hell with the housework… I’m going to the Fest!!! And unlike most everything else in this crazy life of ours, it’s going to be worth every penny that I’m parting with!
I know that in years past that I’ve written about The New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival in terms of what to wear, who to hear, how to avoid the crowd and still find a reasonably clean rest room in my thousand word missives. Not so this season I’m not. So? This is this ‘what up’ for this year:
The Jazz Fest is probably the best time in your otherwise stressful life that you are going to have and still remain vertical. The food, the music, the people, and the atmosphere continues to rock me, every year, since I was paying line cooking dogs four-fifty an hour.
You know, you walk through those gates, the world outside goes away and you (at least I do) forget for eight hours all the other stuff that I have to do and not once look back over my shoulder unless it’s to catch another glimpse of some hot number who’s mama let her get out of the house wearing that outfit.
In what has become my personal tradition, this year I’ll raise my first beer and wish a good god bless to everyone that can’t quite make it, where ever they may be. And one for Michael.
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