I was at the Hookah Bar on Frenchman last night and took this picture.
There’s no source of smoke or steam coming from behind the bar. I have no other explanation. What do you think?

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Roy Blount understands. And David Brooks is starting to get the idea.

It’s rainy and nasty – you’re probably in your house right now, ready to curl up like this kitten:


Aww…kitten…

Local rapper C-Murder, born Corey Miller, has lost a battle in the court of appeal After he’d been convicted of murder, the trial court granted him a new trial. But the court of appeal reversed the new trial and reinstated his murder conviction.

About three weeks ago, C-Murder made news for recording a rap album and video while incarcerated in the Jefferson Parish Jail. Why not? Earl Long ran the state government while confined in a mental hospital. Like Uncle Earl, C-Murder must have thought that only his body was confined.

I enjoy the Irish Channel St. Patrick’s Day parade, where kisses and flowers are liberally distributed, and hefty cabbages, potatoes, onions and carrots are tossed. Fun stuff; especially when there’s plenty of great weather and tasty beverages for all.

Now, I don’t want to stir up trouble, but I’m wondering: how come we haven’t heard anything about skyrocketing insurance costs for the St Patrick’s parade, whose vegetable throws are several times heavier than Zulu’s hollowed-out coconuts? As my 1-year old daughter and I dodged flying cabbages and dense tubers, this crossed my mind.

Momma’s in Mobile.
She’s headed this way.
She’s never been to Nola.
She’s staying at my place.
And my fridge is empty.

My goal for the next 48 hours: Show her how New Orleans is magical. Avoid the quarter at any point past 10:30pm. Hope drunks don’t yell outside my window at 3am after leaving the “WineLoftofMerriment” across the street. To finish that laundry over there.
Be with me. All New Orleans vibes unite and direct your motion toward Julia. Cause Momma’s in Mobile…and she’s coming round the mountain.

A couple months ago some friends had an idea for a new television game show. I am publishing the idea here, but please note that stealing this idea will result in a severe beatdown.

The show is to be called JACKSON SQUARES. The format will be identical to Hollywood Squares, except the contestants will be various derelicts and “characters” chosen from Decatur Street bars and other locations surrounding Jackson Square. The Abbey will likely be the epicenter for talent scouts. On the evening the idea was spawned, potential contestants included “the karate man” who communicates exclusively in fake karate moves, and a guy with a large garbage bag who was sitting in the corner mumbling to himself.

If anyone would like to buy the rights to this idea, the bidding starts at $50,000.

How many people on one street think they can make money simply by painting themselves gold and standing still? I’m not opposed to the practice on general principal

There’s this guy in the Marigny/Bywater who roams the streets selling vegetables from the back of his truck. Not like the folks who set up on Nashville or Carrollton or Marconi with the nice, rustic, hand-painted signs advertising their produce. No, this guy’s in a beat up jalopy of an F150 that makes the Sanford-and-Son-mobile look sweet by comparison. Plus he’s got this loudspeaker on top of the truck that he uses to tell the world what he’s got. You know the kind–like in Polyester, when Elmer drives around their neighborhood shouting “Francine Fishpaw is the fattest woman known to man! She eats a tub of Parkay at every sitting!”

It’s kinda surreal, hearing him approach, with his weird, tinny, monotonous, sing-song broadcast. At a distance, it’s almost incomprehensible. I’ve described it before as sounding a lot like the Muslim call to prayer–unless, of course, you speak Arabic, and then it sounds like some guy singing “I got caaaaarots, I got leeeeemons, I got rutabeeeeega.”

He’s a throwback, a solitary reminder of the days when rag men and flower women roamed up and down New Orleans’ streets, shilling their wares with their own distinct calls. Someone ought to do a documentary on the guy, and fast.

Anyway, he’s back. I was sitting at my desk yesterday, and I heard him from blocks away, and the happiness I felt was sudden and surprising and complete: the Vegetable Man has returned, so it must be spring!

Now if I could only muster the same feelings for that goddamn annoying motherfucker with the ice cream truck who plays a ringtone-esque “Turkey in the Straw” at 180 decibels while looking for sweet-toothed children in an increasingly childless neighborhood.

Like many potentially lucrative ideas, mine is merely an enhancement of current products. It’s not a groundbreaking paradigm shift, but it does capitalize on three innate tendencies of New Orleanians: celebration, procrastination and laziness.

So try this on for size:
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