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.
Each Carnival I approach parade routes with glee and caution. As such please find the below pointers, tips, alerts, and otherwise whacks to the back of heads as the 2012 Mardi Gras season kicks off. We all want to embrace the revelry, so let’s all do our best to help each other enjoy, shall we? Let’s!
As the 2011 calendar year winds down, New Orleans property owners’ thoughts turn toward their 2012 property taxes due by the end of January, because the city has mailed out its annual notice and reminder – just in time for the holidays! However, this is not a new phenomenon. It is effectively an annual ritual, like Mardi Gras or Jazz Fest, though clearly with less pageantry. And it applies to property owners only. Not renters. And not non-profits, which are another article for another time.
I live and work in the Freret corridor, and for many moons now promises of a new streetscape have been on the horizon. Most recently, the collective residents and business owners were informed by the city just weeks ago the start date would be some time in early November. Look at your calendar. It’s the middle of December, and not a bit of concrete has been disturbed.
What’s with this Travel & Leisure readers poll slapping yet another label on the residents of the Crescent City? Now we’re “the strangest.” Really!? The strangest? That’s just how I want to raise my kids and have them self-identify their home and rearing. ”Don’t feel bad about not being like all the other 21st century American children, we’re just stranger than everyone else.” Um, no. I’ll accept most distinctive, most resilient, and / or most fun to be around, but I for one veto strange, at least insofar as defined by most.