General News

Voodoo Fest - Louisiana's Own Woodstock!

Fri, 31 Oct 2008 23:49:50 -0400

You Had to Be There... No, I Mean - RIGHT THERE. After Jazz Fest this past spring, what could be cooler than yet ANOTHER musical free-for-all in New Orleans, at Halloween! We just had to check out Voodoo Fest this year, and I'm sure glad we didn't miss it. We really didn't care about the festival. It was all about R.E.M. to Deb and me, but we went down to City Park in the early afternoon. The Saints were winning at half-time, the weather was drop-dead perfect, and Michael and Spencer were able to stay out a bit late on a school night, so why not enjoy the day? In all honesty, Voodoo Fest was cool, but not so much like Jazz Fest - it lacked that intense excitement all over the place, and was much like any other festival. I hated that there wasn't much going on for the boys to enjoy; definitely not their kind of music. But when the sun went down... everything changed. Within half an hour, our new hippie-cool peace sign blanket was damp from dew on the grass. We were awaiting R.E.M.'s opening songs, and Bobby pointed out something I had missed - as always. I can never remember to look at EVERYTHING. The sky had been crossed all evening with random lights that make lines, I supposed pointing to the park entrance or something. You know how they put those spotlights on events so that everyone can find them. Well, these were not random markers at all. If you tipped your head back like a good hippie, just looking for the stars or enjoying your own little trip... those lights made a peace sign in the sky. The lines converged on City Park, over the little group of happy people on the ground, just a little sign from the heavens... Good freakin' idea. Woodstock in New Orleans. Hell yes. So, there it was. Peace in the night sky, R.E.M. onstage... Bobby B and the boys had to go... so it was just down to me and my own kids. Within the hour, Deb and I lost our minds. They were singing every single song we love, we were screaming ourselves hoarse, dancing, and NOW my little girl has been to a REAL concert, complete with the sweating and pushing and the hazy smell of tobacco and other substances floating on the night breeze. This is what it's all about. This is one of those "here and now" times I've been trying to remember to live in. Two miles back to the car. We're exhausted, Bobby P is already hung over in advance for tomorrow morning. Jen is stealing Voodoo signs off the telephone poles, and we're pretty damned happy to be together, enjoying this. And this. And this. When all was said and done, Bobby B told us that you couldn't see the peace sign from anywhere but our spot on the grass, in front of the stage. They tried to find it on their walk to the car, and it just wasn't there any more. You had to be there - right there - to see what the lines in the sky really meant. Just like I keep reminding myself... right here, right now. It's invisible when you try to make sense of it from anywhere else. Peace, Anne (Eye on the ground from Woodstock, Louisiana)

City of Misfits and Dodging the Bullet

Thu, 11 Sep 2008 14:23:45 -0400

The morning after Hurricane Gustav was a huge relief, but also a disappointment. I was all ready to sneak in, flash my press pass, etc. to return to New Orleans, but none of that was necessary. It was too easy to just slide right into the city limits, wonder at the empty overpasses and the silent streets, gloat a bit over the carte blanche parking situation, and open my condo to the same peaceful scene I always see when I get here... the quiet courtyard and my own little tiny place to be when I want to escape. It was as if Gustav had never come. Great news financially, but an emotional downer. I threw my bags on the bed, made a pot of coffee (yes, there was still electricity), and climbed to the wide windowsill, thinking I would enjoy the quiet morning and the empty building, do some soul searching, maybe write a little... That lasted about half an hour, then I was suddenly lonely beyond words, feeling like I was on an island and hadn't seen other people in twenty years. Hm. Time to put feet on the street, do the thing I do when sadness or loneliness overwhelms me. With no Deborah here, I was stir crazy and just wanted to see some other live humans. Out the front door of the building, a CNN crew is hanging out looking confused. There is nothing here to report. WTF? They are debating whether to even unload their mobile satellite, and I'm kind of smirking to myself, thinking how gleeful they must have been, anticipating recording all the pain, like before. Sorry fellas, no pain here. Only emptiness. There's one place I'm sure there will be people. The French Quarter is the heart of the tourist trade, and surely things will be buzzing there, shop owners cleaning up, chainsaws roaring. I walk the ten or so blocks it takes to get there, amazed at how little evidence there is of the storm. It's breezy, but warm, and I make it all the way into Jackson Square, finally seeing the street sweeper, who has rakes and a few extra Mexicans helping clear the sidewalks of small branches and piles of green, wet leaves. I look at my watch and realize, it's only 7:30. Keep walking, snapping a few pictures of a fallen alligator gumbo sign, a broken glass window, a funny board on a window that says, "We don't run from hurricanes, we drink them." I see some National Guard guys, and when they see my camera they puff up their chests and try to look important and busy. I guess they think I work for the paper. And then I'm at Johnny White's, which may have been the destination in the back of my mind all along. I never go there. It's a tiny neighborhood bar between all the fun bars and the gay bars on a lost little block in between. But it's where Chris Rose and two other Quarterites spent the weeks after Katrina, when the city was a scene from Revelations, and it was the setting for so many unforgettable chapters in Rose's book that I couldn't resist going in. I thought I would find stoic locals who rode out the storm. What I found was a bar full of very dirty people who needed to be told that the water was still on - and GO TAKE A BATH. But because I had come this far, I sat down, ordered coffee, shook hands with the young girl beside me, and deflected a hug from a young punk who smelled like Absinthe and wannabe poets and old attics. I get it. You're an artist. Now go home and take a BATH. The girl, Amber, tells the bar maid to go ahead and give her a shot now. This girl is wasted, and so is everyone else. Gotta love this town. Alcohol can get you through anything - and so can a bar full of supportive strangers. I just settle in and enjoy the coffee, the newscaster's voice on TV and the comaraderie of people who have survived - yet another - near miss. We invent a drink called a Dodge the Bullet. It's named for Gustav and contains Crown, 151, tonic and two BC powders. The hangover medicine is already in it, so when you wake up, it's like nothing happened - just like the hurricane. Amber and I chat a while. She can't be more than twenty-two or so, but she proudly tells me, lifting her second shot, that she's a bartender on Bourbon Street. I get her whole life story (all twenty-three years of it), ending with how she came to New Orleans, fell in love with a guy, and the city, and never went home. The guy is long gone, but the city is in her blood now. She'll die here. I get it. I get it. I'll die here, too. And after that, I walk out of the dark bar into bright, hot sun. It's still only 9 am. Bobby calls and we scream at each other through a bad cell phone connection for a few minutes, give up, and I at least catch the point that he and Michael will be downtown later this afternoon... so I've still got some hours to kill. I walk back to Jackson Square and meet a middle-aged guy on a bike. He starts telling me all about the historic cathedral, and I tell him I know, and thanks, and we go inside, as that's the only way I can think of to make him quit talking. It's beautiful and empty and big. I have never seen the place like this, had it all to myself. Just me and God and this chattering person... for a minute, I really do think about coming for mass the next morning. It's at 7:30 am every day. Hm... it's a bit too early for me. So we dodged a bullet. A big fat Category 4 bullet, and this is my city, and these are all the dozen drunk people in it this morning, and I think about something Amber said. She said she never fit anywhere, never felt she could be herself until she got here. "We're a city of misfits," she says, and so it is. Everyone I know here is a little whacked, and makes no apologies for it. I don't apologize, either. In this place, at this time in my life, I can do this. I can walk empty streets and step over glass. I can walk the distance of the neighborhood back to my little condo, and I am slowed down enough here to realize that what is missing is the music in the air this morning. The saxophones and trumpets are all safely tucked away for now, sitting in old cardboard suitcases and velvet-lined leather instrument boxes, and wherever else the musicians have stashed them until the storm passes. Just like us, all this humanity floating around, emerging in the morning after a storm, the sounds of the endless party will return. I heard them last night at Preservation Hall. I saw a light in my daughter's eyes as she tapped her foot beneath the table, letting the horns and the tempo of Misfit City get into her bones. We dodged a bullet. We're here among the misfits. And we're going to be just fine.

Funniest Ad for Vacation Rental - Ever!

Thu, 28 Aug 2008 15:12:19 -0400

This was posted on Craigslist this morning, thought you'd enjoy it! $200 / 1br - Front Row Seats For Gustav! "Sliver By The River" Ride Of Your LIFE! (UPTOWN - GARDEN DISTRICT) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Reply to: hous-816225651@craigslist.org [?] Date: 2008-08-28, 12:15AM CDT Are you looking for a once in a lifetime out of this world experience? Do you want to feel the full impact of Mother Nature?? Ride this baby out and you will have a story to tell the grandkids! I will even throw in 6 Meals Ready to Eat, or MRE's, 6 gallons of water, 2 gallons of gas and a disposable camera, enough supplies to sustain 2 people for 3 days. You, of course, may want to bring beer, batteries and anything else that comes to mind. Do you want to document the event? Do you want to be a first responder? Are you curious to experience a force that is not to be understood? I have pictures, a website, and all the information you could possibly need. I, of course, am not responsible for you getting yourself injured or possibly killed during this event, but I can tell you this: We did not flood during Katrina. We lost 3 ridge caps on our roof during that storm. We had no broken windows. Our building is made of brick and mortar, not wood. We have off street parking available for 1 or more cars. Our condo is fully furnished and located on the second floor. We were the first zip code to be let back into the city following Katrina. Sound exciting? Dangerous? Please respond if you would like more details. Serious inquiries only. Documents will need to be signed limiting our liability. I will be staying 2 doors down, so we can have beers together. Your choice of MRE's are: Barbeque Pork Rib, Grilled Chicken, Beef Ravioli (my favorite), and Thai Chicken. $200/night 2 night minimum.

Recycling Bono, Adopting a Drag Queen and Other Tales of Manchester, The Moody Melon

Sun, 30 Mar 2008 22:50:24 -0400

When you have a second home in New Orleans, it's expected that when guests arrive you will show them a good time. Our guests this weekend didn't need much help...

My sister, Judye, and her daughter, Jennifer, came down to visit us this weekend at our Cotton Mills location, in a quiet peaceful neighborhood, just blocks from the French Quarter.

Because of our close proximity to Bourbon Street, Jude wanted to be ready to have some fun when she got here, so she started drinking at 5:00pm - Brazil time, I think. In other words, she arrived at 5:00 pm New Orleans time feeling pretty good already, so we headed straight out for a fun Friday night, no plan whatsoever in the works. I was wondering whether, in our late thirties and early forties, she and I would have as much fun as we did back in high school and college. We had so many things to show our daughters!

Right away, Jude made a scene. Just like old times.

We were walking toward the French Quarter when Deb and I noticed that BONO WAS MISSING! The Hard Rock Cafe has a huge (and life-like) Bono poster in the window that is one of our favorite landmarks, so of course, we inquire inside. Can we have it? If they're not going to use the poster any more, we can think of millions of uses for it. We're informed that we can't have it. It's being "recycled." Bono? Recycled? What the...?

Jude is on the case, though. She walks in and demands to see the manager. She will rescue Bono from recycling because it's our duty as fans of Irish drinking songs and Dublin pubs and the fact that we are two of the old folks who remember him before he got fat... like Elvis...

Can she do it? Here is the manager, talking it over with her...

This manager is an absolute Nazi. He continues to insist that Bono will be "recycled," and we finally give up, deciding that what is needed here is more alcohol for our spokesperson. We'll come back to this later.

We proceed to the French Quarter, and we're just soaking up all the music and the smells (not all of them good), and I'm desperately trying to find coffee. We arrive on Bourbon Street, and I know it's a lost cause. There will be no coffee for me - but we find a grocery store, and Judye goes in for more hooch.

... And comes out with a most interesting purchase. A MELON.

"What are we supposed to do with that?" I ask. "How are we gonna cut it?" ask the girls. She has no answers. She is dancing and singing an "I've got a melon" song, and we figure it's just easier to join her than argue. We got a melon, and we're just a few lyrics away from being locked up if you ask me.

What it needs is a mask. This will disguise the produce from being too conspicuous, plus, will make it more legitimate as a party icon, as it is destined to become.

We find the perfect mask, poke a hole for his smoke, and the Party Melon is born. If you can't eat 'em, party with 'em, right?

We keep calling it "The Melon," and this just isn't right. If we're gonna hang out with him, he's got to have a name. We should be on a first-name basis, right? We ask a friendly biker what we should call him...

The biker, who was at first a little intimidating, now just looks... confused. "Y'all are hanging out with a melon?"

"Yeah." We think it's kind of obvious. "So what should we call him?"

He scratches his beard. "Um... he looks kinda moody. So... Manchester? Yeah. Manchester the Moody Melon. That's his name."

"Thanks a lot!" we shout. He never cracks a smile, but waves at us as we leave and shakes his head. Don't let him fool you - he's digging the melon.

Now that he has a name, Manchester takes on a life of his own. He's a magnet for everyone on the street, and before we know it, everyone on Bourbon Street is demanding to party with the melon.

Manchester the Moody Melon has hours of fun. He meets so many characters it is hard to record them all, but here are a few:

There is Kim, who wants to meet our daughters. We tell him he cannot talk to our daughters, but he can carry the melon. We want to see if he is a responsible young man. I show him how to hold Manchester properly, and he follows us for a few blocks, still trying to get to the daughters.

Over the course of the night, Manchester met the following people, not necessarily in this order... a bartender, getting off early for the night.

A Lucky Dog vendor...

A rapper...

A fun guy and his friend, who offered Manchester a ride in his wheelchair...

A waitress in a COFFEE SHOP - YES, there are two places to get Coffee on Bourbon Street - the second one is more fun, and I'll tell you about it in a minute.

Two girls who wanted to get pictures of Manchester for their MySpace...

Some random tourists, who asked us if this (partying with a melon) is a New Orleans thing. We told them yeah, it is.

Some locals trying out a Fight Club thing on the street...

And Manchester crashed a family dinner, inviting himself to cocktails with some folks from Iowa. They were a little resentful, but he charmed them and stole some flatware.

And eventually, Manchester has an inevitable run-in with the NOPD.

He's already calling home to arrange bail, when, luckily, Fight Club goes into action around the corner, and this one leaves to provide reinforcement. Whew.

Last, but not least, Manchester bumps into John, a young drag queen who claims to be from Connecticut. John has a very sad story about his plight. He is stuck in New Orleans with (surprise!) no money for bus fare home.

We tell John we've heard this before. His fresh complexion and sparkling eyes cut through the story of heroin-addicted nightmares on the street. We suspect he's a student at St. Stanislas, cut off from his trust fund for the weekend. He hangs his head with a guilty smile.

But all is not lost. We figure we'll help him with the fundraising, so we give him Manchester and we stick around for a while, asking folks to contribute to his fund, while repeating his story, even though we know it's not true. We make him about twenty bucks in ten minutes. We'd be pretty good at this scam artist thing, don't you think?

We've adopted a drag queen, and it's time to call it a night. We leave Manchester to help with the fundraiser, and the girls say farewell to their new friend. He seems much happier now, and who wouldn't be, what with Manchester staying to help?

One farewell dance, for the sake of raising money, and we drag the girls home. It's 2:00 am, and it's their bed time. Enough with the trust fund drag queen and the party melon already!

Coming Back to Life - The Sounds of New Orleans

Mon, 24 Mar 2008 00:30:54 -0400

We just watched Captain Corelli's Mandolin - one of those quickly-forgotten love stories; like cotton candy, melting away before you can really taste it... but a treat. Satisfying in its own way. And while I was caught up in the little drama on the screen, I was also scribbling on a napkin, hoping to retain just this one thing: soldiers singing opera on a beach in Greece, marching to a cadence of joy in the middle of a war. Interesting, too, to reflect that military battlegrounds are "theaters," and that the pain of war is portrayed in these musical terms. These thoughts, as I am recently entrenched in so many written accounts of Katrina, New Orleans, death and destruction, and the ways we articulate the individual journeys home from that war. Each author I've read shares one thing with all the others; a deep isolation, trying to reconnect with the other survivors and finding that his path is choked with misconception... he writes it all down, wallows in it... most of these writers simply could not turn their heads away. Call them self-indulgent, but they had to scratch down their impressions, using words like the rythym of drums, calling to each other like an ancient tribe. And those of us who read them pick up the references between the lines, the unifying factor being the death of the beat, that loss of swing, the notes that fell to silence as the city collapsed beneath the pulse of rising tides and dancing wind. In Heart Like Water, Joshua Clark speaks of a moment without a single sound. The city is a corpse, not even the hum of flies attending it. The undercurrents of the living city simply ceased. And this is what, to me, measures the rebirth of New Orleans. I listen to the pulse and the musical score is revealing itself in a different kind of symphony these days. Wal Mart on Tchoupitoulas Street is as far from the heart of the city as the coastline of Greece in that movie. Just another urban strip mall as far as I'm concerned, but it is here that I hear the music, feel that weak pulse, in a way I can explain for the first time in a long time. Here, there are no landmarks, just the raw thrust of commerce at its basest level. The worst in our collective character is exposed on the sweat shop produced racks of cheap clothing, the carts jacked all across the parking lot because we're lousy citizens, too lazy to put them back where they belong. Looking at these little clues, I know we're a hopeless case - a lost cause. This tribe of humanity is going down on a slow burn of mass carelessness and cheap thrills. It's all but over now. It is mid-afternoon, four o'clock or so, and I'm walking to the car with my daughter, just a little discouraged by the wave of disconcern for the city all around me. As we walk, my four-inch heels click on the pavement, and so do hers. She grins at me, raises an eyebrow at her silver "space boots," and she skips a step, matching her beat to mine. We are in sync now, and the longer we walk, the more it becomes a march. The grocery cart has a click-clacking loose wheel, and this imperfection joins the click of our heels as we add it to our awareness. There's equipment in the lot next door; big, skeletal, Jurrassic hunks of steel doing big, earth-moving stuff over there. It has a clang, back-and-forth, up-and-down - BANG. And we let it in, add it to the groove of the afternoon. Maybe it hasn't died after all. We reach the car and our buggy-rolling, heel-clicking jazz-swing thing becomes a rest. It's not death - just a pause between the notes. I love that my daughter "gets" this. We load the car, digging the solo by the monster machines over there. I look at her and frown. It's a question. She answers with machine noises and we get into the car, laughing and beating the dashboard with our fingers. That's her response. But we might need words, too, to define the moment, put flesh back on the corpse. "It's like jazz," I tell her. "The city IS the song. There's no plan, it just happens." She shrugs, then rolls down her window to hear the song again. She corrects me, "It happens because we MAKE it happen. We had to hear it." And so it is. We didn't need the words after all.

A Dog's Day in New Orleans

Mon, 10 Mar 2008 20:56:29 -0400

People are not the only lovers of the French Quarter and Warehouse District of New Orleans. After a long week of indoor confinement, our dog, Zeus, decides it is time for a "dog day" outside... and that means Deb and me finding some entertainment for the old boy - or else. Woof.

We aren't sure of the dog-friendliness of our neighborhood, or the French Quarter. One thing we do know for sure is that dogs are welcome and loved at the Cotton Mills condominiums.

Our building is full of dogs - from small yappy ones to full-blown great danes. A favorite is the shiny black lab, Boo-Ray, who lives across the courtyard and spins in circles with glee when he's released outside. His owner is friendly, giving us a wave and a smile when we take Zeus out to play, and dozens of other pups populate the halls, stairwells and sidewalks of our cozy co-op.

But out on the town? We decide to give Zeus a special day, and our mission on a beautiful Saturday morning in March is to show the man of the hour a good time. We'll have to be creative...

We start six blocks away from home with breakfast at Lucy's, our favorite neighborhood pub. We've become "regulars" who can now order "the usual" at Lucy's, so we think it will be a safe test... will our dog be welcome?

We find a table outside, the cheerful umbrella flapping in the breeze... This seems to scare Zeus. The pigeons strutting on the sidewalk are another distraction. Zeus thinks we should chase them, but then he's driven back behind our table in fear as a city bus goes by. He is afraid of cars, and definitely afraid of buses. He hates motorcycles, he hates bicycles. Our fun day out has our poor dog reduced to a shivering furball against the wall... his ears are down, and he seems to be asking, "Are we having fun yet?"

Things start looking up when the food arrives. Our waitress assures us that Zeus is welcome, we order him his own plate of fries, and he is encouraged by two staff members to feel free to lick our plates when we finish our breakfast.

After breakfast, we head toward the French Quarter. We want to share all our favorite pastimes with man's best friend, so we take Zeus shopping at a great store in the French Market called Pets are People, too. He buys an LSU jersey, a fleur-de-lis collar, and this stunning ruffle around his neck in purple and gold - a real Tiger fan! (I hope no one tells him that tigers are cats).

We show him the wonders of the uneven streets in the Quarter. We encounter all the usual artists and performers; including this sarcastic clown. The clown does not appreciate our zeal for Zeus' big day out and barely tolerates having his picture taken with "our baby." We don't think he's a native; he's an imported imposter clown - an angry day-glo multi-colored fake rainbow-haired bastard who won't acknowledge the doggy groove of this very cool outing.

All is well a few moments later when the silver robot mime, our personal favorite, gives him a tender pat on the head. Zeus loves the mechanical space-like whistling sounds and forgets all about rude clowns.

Our next stop is to have Zeus' portrait done. We interview several artists, determined to find the best one to capture our noble beast in all his glory. We finally settle on a charcoal sketcher. Here he snaps a picture of his subject and tells us to come back in an hour for the finished picture.

It's after lunch, so it's time for a drink. We take Zeus to the most famous watering hole in New Orleans - Pat O'Brien's. Unfortunately, the bouncers do not agree that three years old in people years equals twenty-one in dog years, but we did snap a picture to commemorate the moment.

We meet a leprachaun just around the corner...

Zeus stops for a cold Bud Light...

... and of course, a world-famous native Lucky Dog...

Other than poseur-clown-guy, everyone else toasts the four-legged visitor with enthusiasm. Several tourists snap his picture, many exclaim, "Oh, look at the Doberman. Look at his cute outfit!" And we find a mexican restaurant for lunch with a breezeway entrance with tables. This sort of counts as keeping Zeus "outside," and we are in luck that the waitress speaks little English. Her frown and "shoo-ing" gesture are lost on us... we assume she's saying, "Welcome to the restaurant. We are pleased to have you here, and thrilled to have your dog lying in the doorway."

Zeus gives her his best "sad boy" face, and she grunts something and allows him to stay.

Her English is also inconvenient for Deb. She orders a strawberry daquiri - virgin - with her lunch and gets a pretty stiff one... She's only sixteen so I send it back, angering the waitress even more. "She no say that," she insists. "She no say 'no alcohol.'" Apparently virgin means something else where she comes from... Alas, she's not among our growing number of fans today.

Circling back around, we visit Jackson Square park, only to be asked to leave. Dogs are not allowed. Zeus is totally psyched that he's been thrown out of a New Orleans landmark. Another tall tale to share with Boo-Ray over cocktails in the courtyard tonight.

We go pick up Zeus' portrait... a masterpiece. He is clearly impressed when he sees how perfectly the artist has captured his likeness, complete with all the Mardi Gras beads around his neck.

Satisfied and tired, we head for home. Now we've got the Dog Scene all scoped out, and we'll be back to the French Quarter with Zeus soon, enjoying a beautiful day in New Orleans. Maybe next time we'll check out the dog park on the river...

Nah. Too canine. So last season.

New Orleans Condo Renovation - Cotton Mills in the Warehouse District

Thu, 14 Feb 2008 00:04:14 -0500

For those interested in the possibilities of remodeling, I thought I'd show the before-during-after pictures of our condo at Cotton Mills.

I purchased the condo two weeks ago. We're giving it a total makeover, and I thought it would be fun to show the progress as we go along.

When complete, this will be a rental condo, a great New Orleans location in the Warehouse District, perfect for medical students, a vacation rental, or as an executive rental for those visiting New Orleans to work for a while.

This is unit #150. It is a one-bedroom unit, about 600 square feet, and included a "loft area," but not a finished loft. Here is a picture of the first part of our project: the loft.

The picture above is the "loft area," which may or may not have been intended for a loft. The left side is over the bathroom, which had an 8' ceiling and no finished floor above, in the loft area. The right side is over the closet. There was no ceiling in the closet, just a gaping hole all the way to the 18' ceiling above. The wall between them was solid, and seemed to have no function at all. We weren't sure what we'd run into trying to unite the two sides of the loft, but that was our plan - to cut a doorway, build a closet ceiling/loft floor on the right...

So... the floor came first...

Then, we cut the doorway. It turns out there were metal 2x4s in the wall, but no plumbing or electrical wiring. We did bring an electrical outlet up from the bedroom wall during this step.

You can see in this picture the finished result of the snap-in bamboo flooring. It was rather easy to lay, and made a finished floor that is very inviting if this loft is used for sleeping.

Last, we added some iron railing. This is for safety, and also looks great from the bedroom below. It gives a sense of having a balcony in a courtyard, in keeping with our overall plan to "bring the outdoors in."

And the finished railing project view from the bedroom below:

Curtains will be hung on the rods above the railing for privacy and to hide items in storage. We plan to use the loft as my daughter's sleeping area when we visit, but the area would also be great for storage for someone renting the condo.

And last, but not least, here is the view from upstairs, inside the loft. It needs furniture, but the colors are great, the trim is complete, and we're off to a great start.

Right now, the condo is being painted, and a major floor demolition is under way. We're going down this weekend to inspect the progress so far, and will add a new blog about the next steps in our renovation of this New Orleans Warehouse District condo... soon available for rent.

Condo at Cotton Mills - Renovation Begins

Fri, 08 Feb 2008 10:52:05 -0500

I purchased the condo two weeks ago. We're giving it a total makeover, and I thought it would be fun to show the progress as we go along.

This is unit #150. It is a one-bedroom unit, about 600 square feet, and included a "loft area," but not a finished loft. Here is a picture of the first part of our project: the loft.

So... the floor came first...

Then, we cut the doorway. It turns out there were metal 2x4s in the wall, but no plumbing or electrical wiring. We did bring an electrical outlet up from the bedroom wall during this step.

You can see in this picture the finished result of the snap-in bamboo flooring. It was rather easy to lay, and made a finished floor that is very inviting if this loft is used for sleeping.

And the finished railing project view from the bedroom below:

And last, but not least, here is the view from upstairs, inside the loft. It needs furniture, but the colors are great, the trim is complete, and we're off to a great start.

I Know What it Means to Miss New Orleans

Wed, 06 Feb 2008 23:56:08 -0500

I called my mother when I got home from New Orleans today, and she said, "I've got to tell you about this nun I met last week. She is just like you." I was doubtful until she described the longing in that nun's voice, the way she missed New Orleans in the sense of an addict missing crack, and her conviction that there is no better place, no matter what anyone says, than the town we call the Crescent City. That nun... she was teaching there in the seventies, was reassigned somewhere else, and still cannot get the Big Easy out of her blood. She told my mother, "It's the music, the way everyone touches everyone else, whether they mean to or not. It's the neighborhood they call a city. It's just what it is, and there is nowhere else like it." The nun is Irish, with the brogue and the whole nun-thing of being very savvy, having seen it all, and still finding ways to love the world. It's her job to love the world. She probably enjoys happy hour as well, and Mom is right. She does sound like me. I have missed the hell out of New Orleans. Things have changed. It's not the same place I escaped to every weekend in my high school and college years. It is not the sinful slime pit that so attracted me during the rebellious era. It is family-friendly to the point of being Disney-like (and I am not saying Disney-like in a good way). The police are very professional now, there are no t-shirts that make you blush, confronting you from every corner shop. There is no sense of being stalked by gang members. I don't even feel the ghosts the way I used to... Native New Orleanians now have a point of reference around which every conversation revolves. Things have happened "since The Storm," buildings used to stand in certain places "before The Storm," and certain neighbors and friends are still "away because of The Storm," and this reference is embroidered almost unnoticeably into each casual comment, but is as distinct as A.D. and B.C. I think B.C. may stand for "Before Katrina,' but spelled wrong. I'm not sure. I'll have to ask a local. So it's different, but also the same. I feel safe there now, even alone with a sixteen-year-old daughter in tow, walking the streets of the warehouse district late at night, off to see the tail end of another Mardi Gras. We're safe, but also blessed with the random-ness that I remember and love. That music. That coming-from-nowhere, who-is-playing-that-horn, does-it-just-float-up-from-the-potholes jazz that just "happens" all day long. Silence in the streets. Horses hooves clopping, a few tourists with yankee voices chattering about red beans and rice... ("Do you have a Rolaids, George? That was a little HOT)." And then a sudden intro from a trumpet - out of nowhere. GOOD trumpet music. It's just some guy, but he pulls the horn down from his mouth and grins as all the heads turn, and the pace on the street picks up a bit, so he continues, talking to the neighbors through the notes, orchestrating the rhythm of the afternoon. That guy... he's just a guy, and he's just there. He doesn't work at this, it is just a song on the wind and will be recorded nowhere but in my bones. Even after The Storm... we still have this. Speaking of which, there are now souvenirs that fight back at Katrina. They say "Cafe Du Monde. Hurricane Katrina couldn't blow the sugar off the beignets." So there. We've also got some new stuff. That is what this blog is about. I'm now a part-time resident of the Arts/Warehouse District. It's not the French Quarter, it's a... suburb, I think. It's about a ten block walk from Canal Street. It's kind of half-slummy, half artsy-bohemian, and historical enough to be authentic New Orleans. I'm liking it. I'm learning it. I'll tell you all about is as I find out more, but my new part-time neighborhood has some interesting features. We've got a Dumpster Buddha, a Courtyard Cat, condos with a "Peter Pan factor," and I just learned why there's no great marching band action in Lee Circle at Mardi Gras. One of my neighbors told me. She swears her wheelchair is not a gimmick to get more throws at parades, but it kind of worked out that way. There's just too much to tell. And there's so much to learn. I have got to uncover the mystery of the Silver and Gold Men. Are they zombies? Mimes? So much research to do, plus a condo to renovate. I'll keep you posted. Anne