Those of you would frequently pass through the intersection of Magazine and St. Andrew (the last one-way block of Magazine as you head Uptown) have seen Tommy. He’s the gnome-like man who often wanders out in the middle of Magazine to shake his cup at passers-by, sometimes stradding the white line before careening, pinball-like, back to the sidewalk. He roots through trash cans to eat, pisses on walls, shouts at people and, generally, endangers himself and creates a small, pitiful spectacle as his daily life. I don’t know Tommy’s story (and I doubt he does either, anymore) and I doubt I could understand a lot of it anyway, given his Dr. John-like manner of growlish Yatspeak. I had to shoo him away from the front of the restaurant this evening, since he’d seated himself at one of our sidewalk tables to dine on leftover macque-choux from the previous occupants. I told him he could take the food, but he couldn’t sit there — so I became a “fucking asshole” as he crept slowly away, corn dribbling down his shirt. He finished it up at a nearby trash can.

The cops tell who know him tell me Tommy has a place to sleep and is not homeless. They’ve been there many times — often to return him from a hospital trip after he’s been beaten severely when calling someone less tolerant a “fucking asshole.” Tommy is one of those many who roam our streets who are beyond reasonable help — likely due to a combination of their own bad choices, unfortunate circumstances and, quite possibly, simple biology. Every city has them, but I don’t think they’re publicly tolerated as much as they are in New Orleans (at least not as long as they’re physically harmless, as Tommy certainly is).

I certainly don’t want him in or near my business. But, at the same time, God bless him and those like him. Please.

Anyway, I drive by and see the kitchen staff hanging around outside and it’s a veteran crew. I glance in the door and there’s virtually nobody there, so I figure now’s a good time to sit down and give the place another chance. Maybe I’m wrong, y’know? Local place, local dollars, we’re all in this together, yadda yadda.

So I sit down at the bar and order a sandwich and a Barq’s and I’m watching a little baseball and some guy walks in off the street and IMMEDIATELY (like, first glance) tells some guy at the end of the bar he “don’t wanna hear it” and these two yahoos get into a shouting and shoving match. In like, oh, 12 seconds. The barkeep says he doesn’t want this kinda crap in his bar so he tosses one of them and order is restored. About this time my food arrives and I really, REALLY don’t want to wait for Tossed Guy to show back up (and you know he will) to resume this argument. So I ask for a box and walk back to the house with my food and the remainder of the Barq’s.

I get back to the house and open the food and it is, in a word, horrible. And this from a place that’s been featured (deservedly, in the past) in some national publications for its food and atmosphere.

Our city these days has too many such places, events and, in so many cases, people — that we used to trust because they used to be solid and reliable. And they still are, at least to those who have been away or don’t get back as much as they’d like or who prefer to see things through yesterday’s eyes. But they’ve become weak facsimilies of their old selves — surviving on reputation instead of reality. I could list them, but that would only spur needless argument and it would be a subjective list anyway.

New Orleans is, thankfully, a sum of its traditions. It’s one of the main reasons I live here. But it bothers me when there’s too much looking back. In our case, too often, hindsight is far from 20/20. Simple physical myopia is correctible — but I fear our social and cultural near-sightedness could be deadly if we let it.

Please do not misunderstand. Those of us who live in New Orleans are grateful for every dollar brought to us. I’d estimate fully 85% of the folks who are in town this week are wonderful, helpful, tasteful and otherwise affable folks just here to enjoy the music, food and general ambiance that is New Orleans. Thankyouthankyouthankyou. Seriously.

To the other 15% — please put on normal clothing, shut up and go the hell home. Right now. Thank you.

Our place has been fortunate enough this week to host visitors from Hawaii, Sweden, Great Britain, Germany, several Asian nations and a long list of various US states and Canadian provinces. Happy words have been exchanged all around and business cards passed back and forth and laughter traded and all that. It’s great. It really is.

….but please spare me from the oversized, Hawaiian shirt, Jesus-sandal, floppy-hat-and-cargo-short-wearing Baby Huey type (why do their wives always dress in this thing that looks like a baby’s onesie without the crotch snaps? Maybe they DO have crotch snaps. I’m afraid to look). We had a table of them this morning — and I wisely offered to run some errands instead of hanging around and telling them what I REALLY thought….

When you order a “dressed” burger, baby, it includes “all that crap.” And when you order a higher-priced, special burger, it includes even more crap (which is listed on the menu). Sending it back to have us remove crap makes us want to put crap on it that you REALLY don’t want. Seriously.

I got a delivery of fresh produce this morning. I had some myself and it was very good. So, baby, don’t tell me this lettuce is “a little past its prime.” So are you. Big-time.

This is a made-to-order meal for five people. It took 14 minutes to come to your table. If that’s not fast enough, St. Charles Ave. has a McDonald’s, a Burger King and a Wendy’s. Taste the New Orleans food tradition up there. Or, better still, stand in line for 30 minutes at JazzFest to get flaccid facsimilies of what had (maybe) been good food four hours ago. And enjoy it with the real Louisiana flavor of a lukewarm Bud Light.

Okay. Rant over. It’s just been a long day.

We truly are thankful for our visitors over the past couple of weeks. And, even for that 15% who negatively stand out, we’re grateful for giving us something to talk about and stereotype until next year. Really.

But damn.

Oh, and it was good to meet Rayna & Co. the other day. Thanks for coming to see us. And my old college buddy Chris from Nacogdoches and a nice lady from Fort Walton Beach who introduced herself today — and a host of other bloggers from various sites. It is good to feel connected again, at least in an Internetty kinda way. Lord knows I’m overly connected in other ways to far too many people anymore.

One thing that begs writing about has been the ongoing (and, as yet, unended) quest for a beer and wine license. The City of New Orleans, in its infinite wisdom and lust for new revenue, has finally (after four months and much assistance from the office of Councilwoman Stacy Head) granted us our beer and wine licenses. But we are still waiting on folks in Baton Rouge to follow through — and this “two week” process has taken a month so far. Perhaps I have committed the ultimate Louisiana faux pas and forgotten to slip a little inducement in a package of paperwork. Silly me.

But the City of New Orleans, though it has approved the new licenses, has not wanted to be simply forgotten and cast aside like an old shoe. I received a call two weeks ago from some minion at City Hall, informing me my Occupational License was being denied. “Why?” said I, stifling a laugh.

“You need your ABO (alcohol) licenses.”
“I have them on my wall.”
“You need your conditional use permit from the City Council ”
“I have it in my file drawer.”
“Then you shall have to come down to City Hall and see Mr. (No, I will not post his name - the target would be far too unmistakable and slow-moving to resist).

So off I go to City Hall to see Mr. X — who informs me of the same issues. I respond in the same manner. He says, “Well, then, it appears all you need is your final inspection,” which was scheduled for the next day.

Mr. X appears two days later and pays virtually no attention to virtually anything in my place. After his 45-second visit, he tells me to go to City Hall the next day and I can “leave with the license in-hand.” So (Dr. Pavlov is laughing somewhere), I indeed answer this bell and appear again in his office the next morning. He turns to a co-worker and informs her I need to fill out the “final paperwork” for my occupational license (which I filled out nearly a year ago). She says, “you got ABO license, baby?” I say, “Why, yes, baby, I do.” She says, “then you already got your occupational license. You all good to go.”

For some reason, I felt as victorious as Sitting Bull at Little Big Horn. No, I don’t know why. But I really and truly did — but all the while knowing this is all going to somehow come back and bite me in my little gumbo-making ass at some point.

But, for now (except for the possibly mythical state alcohol license), all our paperwork is in place and on the board and proudly disaplayed for all to see, photograph, ponder over, admire, wonder at and, yes, even spindle and fondle as desired.

…and it all expires in 33 days, at the end of May. I am serious as freaking cholesterol.

Ain’t never dull, I tell ya.

Full disclosure — my place of business is nearby, okay? And the (very few) workers at this place are occasional customers. But this really, really doesn’t have anything to do with this post. Honest.

The place is a landmark for the vinyl world and it’s in serious trouble. Name a 45 or an LP and the place will either have it or tell you who does. It’s out-and-out a historic place, at least musically. But very few people know about it anymore or they simply overlook it. Of course it has used CDs and videos and other stuff.

All I’m saying is that if you haven’t gone in, you need to. At least to say you actually shopped in what might be the last of the real record stores in New Orleans.

The envelope is from an inmate at a California state prison and is addressed to (sic):

Mr. John A. Clarke
Executive Office/Clerk of the Administratively Unified Courts
North Valley District
XXX XXXXXX Street
San Fernando, Calif. 91340

I have Xed out the street address so weirdos won’t wind up at my door. But the street address is the ONLY thing that was correct about this winding up at my house. HTF did this wind up in New Orleans when all the ZIP codes are correct?

I know, I know. But this might explain why my (already paid-for) copies of Smithsonian Magazine have stopped arriving. Perhaps they’re going to a courthouse in San Fernando, Calif.

I also get mail for a farm co-op that has never been at this address. And, once a month or so, I get what appears to be an investment account statement for this same street address IN NEW YORK FREAKING CITY. This is can understand, since a 1 and a 7 can look alike to some machines. But damn.

I’ll just toss this one back in the mailbox with the others. But has anyone else noticed the increasing scarcity of mailboxes around town? There used to be one on Magazine in front of Mayan Import (the cigar place), but it’s been shut down. There are virtually no mailboxes anymore in the Lower Garden District, meaning we have to take outgoing mail up to Louisiana Ave. or drop it off if we happen to be downtown.

Ain’t right, I tell ya.

I’d been only once since the season opening on Thanksgiving. I wound up about breaking even — scoring big on a 15-1 shot early and then watching some other selections founder in the sloppy conditions until a couple of mixed results before we left. Then I had to go back to work and build tomorrow’s gumbo.

…but it was a delightful day. If you haven’t been out to the track, you need to go. Even if you don’t give a rat’s ass about horses or their racing (as I don’t). It’s just a fun place to be and the people-watching is wonderful.

I’ve always said, despite opinions otherwise, that I’ve been pretty happy with how the day-to-day things run at City Hall. I know our mayor can be a buffoon, but the staffers have always been helpful to me and my business. I have had to work quite a bit with Councilwoman Stacy Head’s staff to push through my beer and wine license (it’s coming!) and they have been tremendous. I’ve also gotten quick answers from the office staff at Finance , Permitting and the other offices.

But I tell ya — my attempt this week to correct some paperwork led to my discovery that my business no longer existed. And don’t try to tell them otherwise. It was like a living person trying to convince the Social Security Administration they are indeed alive.
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There is a new editorial in the New York Times that sheds more light on the situation. It basically says what the City Council said in its recent vote and what I’ve seen with my own eyes over the past year or so — that this mixed-income housing can and indeed DOES work in New Orleans and should be expanded.

Each day, I drive through the River Garden area that replaced the old St. Thomas projects. My business bumps up against this area and my own house is less than eight blocks away. I can tell you that the level of crime in the area is miniscule, the units were and have remained nice and, most important, the affability of the neighborhood is infectious. What problems there are (drugs, violence, derelicts hanging on a street corner, etc) are not evident in this area — they come from surrounding blocks that have not been improved to the point where someone can take pride in where they live.
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Over the past six months, I have poured thousands upon thousands of dollars into construction of a restaurant on Magazine St. I have been scrupulous to do so as required by the City of New Orleans. In addition to the usual Health Department things, I have also had to construct, at the city’s direction, two ADA-compliant restrooms — complete with all the ramps and the turning space and the grab bars and all the other things required by the Americans with Disabilities Act. If not for these, I would have been open, um, like four months ago.

Over the past several months, I’ve had the opportunity to go eat at numerous restaurants around the city — some of them brand new and some of them more than 150 years old. But in NONE of them on Magazine St (including one that opened less than three weeks ago) appear to be facing these same requirements. I used a restroom at lunch today that was only marginally larger than the head on my freaking sailboat. Seriously — and this was in a NEW restaurant.

..so I have decided I am going to loudly advertise the fact that I have what’s apparently the ONLY FREAKING ADA RESTAURANT ON MAGAZINE STREET. I’m going to advertise in every publication and ahead of every convention that gears itself toward the wheelchair and/or PowerChair crowd. And I know there’s some rich sumbitches out there. Larry Flynt — take a break from your place and come see me.

Sorry. I am seriously all set to accomodate any and all customers, as long as they behave like dey Mama raised ‘em right. But the city seems to allow so many others to qualify for some kinda grandfathering clause. The rules seem to be as adjustable as your average AM radio dial. I guess I’m just not paying off the right people.