For music lovers around the world, New Orleanians at home and abroad, and all others that can’t seem to eat enough Crawfish Monica any other time of year, Thursday, Jan. 17, 2013, will not only mark the release of this year’s JazzFest line-up but also an official beginning to the countdown when the hallowed names that unfurl before your very ears get cubed and slotted into what day and time in just a few short weeks. For me, I always find it kind of fun to predict, wonder, and generally kvetch over the money headliners that bring in the almighty dollar usually and unfortunately overshadowing the amazing city, state, and otherwise regional talent our slice of heaven has on tap. So without further ado, to follow are my guesses of possible headlining acts that could very well perform. And to be perfectly clear I have no affiliation with JazzFest nor am I privvy to any insider info. These are just my ramblings, though who knows, they could actually pan out. Why not?
“Life is uncertain; eat dessert first,” was one of the standards Gail Cournoyer used to espouse any given workday, and usually a few times of day at that. I knew Gail when we slung coffee together in a green apron in Boston’s Coolidge Corner over ten years ago. She was a delightful sort, especially for being a native New Englander, having endured dozens of harsh winters. Always laughing, always cheery, even during a wicked Nor’easter.
Recently en route to a morning meeting, I got pulled over by the NOPD, with good reason: my license plate had long expired. And I knew it, and I knew what was next. My inspection sticker? Expired. Insurance? Legit, but no proof therein. The only saving grace was that my license to drive happens to be aces with nothing attached, plus I operated the vehicle in a stellar manner. Okay, the officer didn’t use the word ‘stellar’, that’s my own embellishment. But trust me, I’m a good driver, just maybe not always a 100-percent legal one.
“Da-aad?” called out my 3-year-old in a singsong, next-room voice as the Sunday sun crept up over the horizon, “This morning (pause) I didn’t pee in your bed.” I respond, same singsong and with a slight smile, “O-kay, thank you.” And while I was pleased to learn for at least one night my mattress went urine-free, I had to laugh a little. The night before, 4 hours away, and a state over, my 20-year high school reunion had taken place without me, and frankly I’m OK with that. But after waking up before the sun and seeing the ample Facebook posts from those in attendance I quickly wondered how many therein also woke up to a urine-free slumber and based upon the pics I wouldn’t say it was a lock. Everyone seemed to have enjoyed themselves, maybe some more than others, and maybe others more than some. That said, I hope everyone made the effort enjoyed themselves responsibly, urine-free sleep and all.
Yet another rhetorical pop quiz from the Sewerage & Water Board this past Monday left Orleans Parish residents (read: me and likely you) wondering if our one and only water supply was safe for consumption. And the solitary answer everyone can agree on equals “Maybe.” Forget that it’s the 21st century, forget that Roman aquaducts remain a marvel to humanity and civilization on the whole, and forget too that over the next five years an Orleans Parish water bill will grow incrementally like a film of algae from a broken fire hydrant to the nearest street drain. But remember this: your vote still matters. And why this will always be important remains a let-me-speak-to-your-supervisor line of thought. The S & W B does not answer to much, or do they? So who’s in charge?
The other day my 10-year old says aloud to me as I scrawl something somewhere with my trusty ink pen, “Hey, I have that pen too!” I respond quickly, if not a little gruff, “You do? Well, it’s mine, so give it back to me.” To which she closes me down, “Well, it has my name on it soooo – – – ” She spins her (my) pen in her hand and holds it horizontally toward me, and sure enough there’s her full name spelled out. And there you have it! Possession remains 9/10ths of the law big, beautiful world. Lap it up! Ahhhhh, rules! That one’s going to be a lawyer I tell you; her mother and I have always said this.
In a day and age when both rents seem outta wack (read: way high) but loan rates seem equivalently outta wack (read: historically low), to follow are the pros and cons, or the likely benefits and potential headaches, of landlording.
Personally my journey to becoming a landlord was fairly accidental and organic. My (then fiance but shortly thereafter) wife and I purchased a little single shotgun Uptown in the late 90s only to move out of state within the year. We didn’t want to re-sell so we leased it out, and for 3 years we kept the same tenant which in turn paid our note and then some for miscellaneous upkeep. When we returned to re-occupy the space in 2001, a little while later we felt we kinda missed managing an income producing investment. In short order we made the leap proper and bought a duplex in early 2002, and we’ve been in the business since. So if you wanna be a landlord…
We might all agree the digital world is awesome till the power goes out. Suddenly you’re missing out on your next play on Words With Friends, status updates, tweets or what have you, but go ahead and scream because you’re miles from where anyone with a MacGyver-like sensibility (MacGyvine? maybe?) or open Radio Shack might hear you. No sir, the DTs of the smart phone come down ain’t nothin’ pretty, and at press time the Betty Ford clinic ain’t servin’ the likes o’ you.
The other evening, without thinking and in passing, I addressed a colleague who I’m guessing is a few years my senior with a “Miss” and her last name — let’s call her Jane Doe. We ran into each other on Magazine Street, and I was trying to keep track of my 4 girls when she walked by. Frankly I didn’t think she had recognized me as, much to my wife’s dislike, I’d recently trimmed my beard down to a fu manchu, and let’s be honest, a fu manchu makes a face present differently (and debatably embraced). So here I was keeping count of my brood when after she passed she turns and says with a smile “Oh, hello!” To which I, admittedly somewhat distracted while actively parenting, utter an “Oh, hello Miss Doe – – -“
She stopped, and her jaw dropped.
Monday morning I woke up with a crusty old ’90s grunge rock song rattling around in my head, which I suppose isn’t too big of a surprise. It was “Overblown” by Mudhoney. And unless you were or are a student of grunge, which I kind of was, or spun the soundtrack to the movie Singles more than a handful of times (guilty) you might never have heard this jangly noise bomb. It drives a careening beat and rhythm accompanied by these opening lyrics:
Everybody loves us
Everybody loves our town
That’s why I’m thinking lately
The time for leaving is now
Hey, hey, hey, hey (x4)
It’s so overblown
It’s no secret that politics in New Orleans can get dodgy fast. As voters, we can blame ourselves only so much for a politician’s decisions or behavior. “Don’t Blame Me I Voted For the Other Guy” a bumper sticker reads. Or more locally famous “Vote For The Crook – It’s Important” when Edwards went up against Duke some years ago; Edwards won, and both have since spent time in prison.
Between crime stats, budget concerns, and yes even and of course scandals, as citizens our vote does matter, but if you don’t register to vote, your voice silences completely; you effectively vote not to participate. Unless you just never registered? Which if you just moved here or are moving here, it’s a strong possibility, wouldn’t you agree?
“Scare the hell out of ‘em,” my grandfather used to routinely yell at the TV during the weather under a hurricane watch. Louis was a funny, old guy. Spot on, too. Laying back in his ratty, leather Lazy Boy, he’d peer at the precipitation prognosticators through his thick glasses and maybe shake his right index figure counterbalanced by a crooked pinky a la an old football injury incurred when shoes were still and truly spiked. This phrase accompanied every foreboding forecast while my grandmother Mireille would counter his groans with a dismissive “Oh Louis . . .”
I have no problem with the language skills of the average New Orleanian. If anything I fully embrace it, however I have to confess it often leaves me scratching my head if only because more often than not the word, syntax, and otherwise grammar choices made seem to be born out of sheer whim rather than deference to text. Mostly I might chalk this up to New Orleanians’ frequent disregard for accuracy (and this might include driving habits, but another column for another day). Generally, we all understand one another well enough, so what’s the difference, right? For example, do quotation marks “really” have to be placed appropriately? If it’s me, then “yes,” they do; but if it’s your favorite po-boy spot’s menu “board” detailing specials, “then” no, not so much.
As we warm into spring and the real estate market heats up, I’ve been reflecting on some recent conversations with buyers, sellers, and lessees. Among the topics covered include agency, deposits, pricing, and on. Not surprisingly there are more than a few misconceptions in navigating the world of real estate, so please embrace the following 10 myths as a sort of primary guide.
My first home purchase was a shotgun in the Riverbend on Dublin St. It faced west, sat in the middle of the block, and was a stone’s throw to the streetcar and not much further from all the other things a 23-year-old finds indispensable (read: Cooter Brown’s). At the time, I didn’t think much of my new residence. I clearly liked it enough to buy it, but frankly I was mostly happy not to be paying rent any longer.
Whether you realize it or not, there’s an annual gathering in Austin, Texas, this week called South by Southwest, abbreviated SXSW for all those in the know. Like all successful annual gatherings I’m sure it started out small, maybe in someone’s garage, maybe in a cow pasture; afterall, it is Austin. Its primary purpose remains to promote new musical talent and revisit some icons of various genres as well. Over the years SXSW has morphed from just music to music and movies to for the last little while, well, music, movies, and media, the latter a no brainer given the IT juggernaught the city is. All in all, a perfect amalgamation for the Texas capital known as “The Live Music Capital of the World” that has spawned cinematic wonderment from big screen director darlings Richard Linklater, Robert Rodriguez, and even Mike Judge. So what if anything does SXSW have to do with New Orleans? In my estimation, two, and now even three, things really:
Being in real estate, I respond to inquiries about moving to New Orleans almost every day. Some are here presently and somewhat homeless while some won’t be here till Fall. The average inquiry looks like someone new to the area, and excitedly shopping for May or June, because of a new job in queue. The hardest to manage are the parental inquiries seeking accommodations for their barely out of the house undergrad child and their three “closest” friends. Sigh. Really? Sounds like a thankless journey, that one. Do you know how hard it is to get a 19-year-old and – or even 24-year-old – and their friends du jour to show up to an appointment at the same time? Much less get them to agree on anything. Who gets the biggest room? Who gets which bathroom and who will they share it with? It’s messy and overly time-consuming at best.
Greetings revelers! Two weeks ago I posted 10 points as a basic parade goers guide with some wonderful responses. This week as we ramp up toward the mania now less than two weeks out, expounding on, otherwise clarifying, and adding a second ten seem in order.
The invention of gunpowder was an accident. So was plastic. Viagra too. The reinvention of Freret similarly so. Despite decades of best efforts of local government, administration pledges, and the citizenry alike and at large, Freret couldn’t get any measurable play until after Katrina. But to be clear, no one thing has made Freret what it is today. It has taken a village, um, of events, so to speak. But let’s start with the birth of the Freret Street Boxing Gym, established seven years ago. At the time, Freret’s business offerings were basically tattoos, red beans and hardware. Today, as it has been for decades upon decades, the hardware store is still there. But not the tattoos. And not the red beans, either. And, as of the last month, the gym has moved as well — to O.C. Haley Boulevard.