10:41 PM |
It turns out that the Clevelanders aren't really Clevelanders at all. They are from Chicago and Kansas City and somewhere in Texas. I'm not sure that all of those are actually in the Cleveland group, but all of them were at breakfast. You steered me wrong, D.A.D.D. I hope your daughter sneaks out in the middle of the night and dates someone. Michael cooked breakfast. Michael is as neat as I am. He cleans as he goes. Me too. I can't stand having messy stuff around me when I want to eat. And I really hate dishes in the sink. Michael does too, and also hates crumbs on the counter. I pick up crumbs from the tablecloth at restaurants. Religiously. My grandmother always had a damp sponge on hand. My mother-in-law asked me for a dishtowel and said she didn't want to touch that dirty thing. That was before my hygiene phase. I read you could put sponges in the dishwasher and clean 'em right up. She still wouldn't touch it. I bought new sponges. Nope. I finally bought a whole pile of dishcloths from Williams Sonoma. Dishcloths look like cheap washcloths to me, with those hems that always fray because they don't pay the orphaned children in Bangladesh enough money to buy proper thread. I migrated to dish towels. I use them for everything. My favorite ones are stained beyond the capacity of bleach. I like them. My kitchen drawer is so full of them that it won't close sometimes, and if it did it wouldn't open because they go in smoothly when I cram them in, but kind of automatically self-wedge on the way out, like the woven finger thing you got in Chinatown went you went with your mother (that was before she let you buy the dolls that came in a box and you could change their hair-- hey, those are Japanese, I bet nobody told Chinatown that). Back to my beloved dishtowels. I have the really pretty ones with the woven fruit and flowers and stuff on them. I fold them up neatly and drape them over the oven door handle. Very attractive. I also have a ton that I bought in France that year we were all friends and went to France to watch Michael work. I gave my BFF a stack of dishtowels for Christmas last year. She likes them too. And also doesn't use them. I have to let mine dry before I put them in the laundry thing because I don't want them to mildew or get really smelly and mess up the clothes I have in my hamper. My hamper isn't really a hamper because it is an antique trunk kind of thing with some orphanage or girls' school or something stenciled on it. I bought it on-line through firstdibs and paid way to much for it. It is from England. That makes it good.
We are all of a certain age, and that means college applications. The lady with the wet hair at breakfast (I'm okay with wet hair at breakfast, but you should probably restrict that to the privacy of your own breakfast nook) is working on college stuff with her daughter. Is she a junior? No, she's just starting the college search. She's a sophomore. That's 15 years old, folks. How on earth is a fifteen year old gonna know anything about college? She's too busy using Proactiv like Jessica Simpson and Julianne Hough do. I was going to do the Peking to Paris in my 1941 Ford convertible last fall. I signed up a long time ago, and completely forgot that it was the fall that I had to hover over my kid until he finished his Common App essay. One of the other ralleyers (ralleyists? rallyers?- this is put on by a British company) said that wasn't a problem. Just hire one of those consultants and they'll take care of getting your kid into the college of his or her choice. The New York parents are vicious like that. They make it tough for those of us who have normal kids that take the SAT twice, tops. Wet hair lady got an earful from some other girl (maybe nice innkeeper's wife?) about going to Smith. After they left, I had a delightful time speaking with a couple whose son is in Tulane and loves it. They are nice, normal people. I hope all nice, normal people have kids that get into the college of their choice.
Enough dicking around. It is time to finally get a key for Woody's doors. I really do think I dropped the original ones in that little space between the back seat and the tailgate where my tools are, but I'll never know until I get another key made anyhow. I figured I would save some time and call the innkeeper's locksmith of choice to make sure he has the blanks for a 70 year-old car. He does not. Gives me the name of another locksmith. I always do better in begging for what I want in person than on the phone, so I headed out to see Dr. Lock. I found it all by myself, with no GPS, so there. I met Joan. Joan was an educator and retired and shopped for 6 years. All she wanted to do is shop for a job. So she and her husband bought this business. Joan is a little hard of hearing, well a lot hard of hearing, and I don't think she quite knows that. But she is sharp as a tack. Her daughter told her not to get in this business, that she would be a slave to it. But, Joan said, I have these. She showed me three or four signs handwritten on manila file folder material (does anyone say manila any more?). Here are a few:
She puts them in the window whenever she wants a break from the business. No slave, that Joan is.
Dr. Lock has an enormous number of blanks on the wall. I said, Joan, you must have a lot of money tied up in those blanks. Yes she does, and with the price of copper going up, they're getting more expensive. She carries all the different kinds, including those that Home Depot don't carry. Nevertheless, her most popular ones are the QwikSet and Schlage D1s. But Joan has no 1942 Ford blanks. Joan has a card file. She typed all the cards herself. She retrieved a card and called Mr. Rudy at Star Locks. I'm pretty sure the guy I went to see was named Sal, but Joan got the job done.
Went to see Star Locks, with oral directions only, no GPS. Had no problem getting there, although the neighborhood is kinda dicey. Star Locks has purple metallic keys for Mardi Gras, I guess, and ones with black fleurs de lis, for the Saints, I guess. Sure have some fancy keys there, I said. Yeah, we have a lot. But no 1942 Ford keys. They took my ignition key and tried to figure out what blank they needed. You hold it up to a little picture of the profile in a catalog. They use a different catalog than the guy in Louisville, so they have to cross reference the equivalent model. That would be an A25. They ask how long I am in town. I sense a Monteagle coming on. They are ordering it. What the hell. I am in New Orleans in a nice B&B and I'm not going anywhere in particular. Could be worse. Asked for directions to car wash. Hey (whoever is in backroom), who could do a really nice job on this car? No, I interrupted, I just need a place where they have those high pressure hoses that you use. Oh, a self-service. Yes. I don't use any soap on the woodster. Set off with nothing but directions, and I even had to make two of those turns because the street they told me to use is one-way in the wrong direction. Drove and drove for what seemed like an awfully long time, but this is New Orleans, and there are a lot of stop signs, stop lights, and an ungodly number of very large SUVs with no compunction about barging right in front of you. The neighborhood got worse and worse. I finally pulled off into a side street. Asked directions of the only mandarin-speaking member of the community. Great pantomime, though. I was across the street from the car wash.
Washed Woody, and had a heck of a time getting the dead bugs off the front. I think you need a special cleaner for that. Note to self: get special bug cleaner. Pulled out next to rasta guy in van. He likes my car. Hit road that is only one in half a mile that is undergoing dirty construction. At least the car wash only cost me a buck fifty. Pulled in gas station. Really needed gas. Went to pay inside. Middle Eastern guys behind bullet-proof glass. Gas station is also liquor store. Homeless guy looking for money. Wiping Woody's hood with his cuffs. Dude, begging in front of a liquor store is not a smart move. There are a lot of homeless people here, and a lot of addicts. In the whole city. Also a huge number of cops, some on motorcycles. I haven't seen a motorcycle cop since C*H*I*P*S with that sexy Hispanic guy. Even in the poorest parts of Mississippi there are no homeless people. People drink, but they're not drunks. At least not usually. And the only cop I met was Chief Veazly with Car 54 in Tunica. Anyhow, poured some Marvel Oil into the tank with the nifty flexible stem funnel. The Judge would be proud. Filled up. Met Ken. Ken came down here to do construction after Katrina. He is from Nebraska. I think the guy I met at the general store in Clarksdale was from Nebraska. They both told me not to go there. Ken had a Harley t-shirt on and Harley guys usually know hot rod guys. Hot rod guys know flatheads. Woody is a flathead. Yes, Ken did know someone, John Cox. I called Mr. Cox later and he has too many jobs in his shop right now. No mercy for the road weary. But, he did give me another name. It's on my voicemail and I haven't called the guy yet. Maybe the Marvel Oil will grease things up a bit. I could still use a brake adjustment, but if the Star Locks guy can open my tailgate, I'll have my tools and can do it myself.
Went to find Museum of Southern Food and Beverage. Parked behind the aquarium. I hadn't planned to go to the aquarium, but it looked kind of cool from the outside. Sign: Closed today. Oh well. Went through Riverwalk, a hideous mall cum food court with partial views of the river. Asked guy behind desk that isn't information even though everyone thinks so, where museum is. This is Mike. He is bored. If you want to take a walking tour you can fill out a little yellow slip. This is true for Haunted New Orleans tours and swamp tours too. Things you can buy at Riverwalk:
Walked toward escalators to Level C and saw !!!! visitor information! This is Michael (I have only met Jasmines and Michaels in Louisiana so far. Michael says that it's because Michael has been the fourth most popular boy's name for like 60 years or something). He is not really a visitor information guy. He is a writer and performer, although he hasn't done a lot lately. He gave me his card. I asked Michael where I could find a voodoo guy. The real ones aren't accessible by tourists. I wasn't offended. Michael is cool, and he was just telling me the truth. He did tell me that if I asked a particular bartender at a particular place, I might be able to find the one in the Quarter who is no bullshit. I will do that tomorrow. Michael is as bored as Mike is.
Finally found MOSFAB, a most fabulous name for the Museum of Southern Food And Beverage. This is Kelsey. Kelsey was a history major at Tulane and, well, history is good at a museum, she guesses. She is not from here. She moved all the way down from North Carolina. Starving. The museum sucked. It was all about New Orleans food, not all southern food. I did find the Shrimp and Petroleum Festival interesting. They even had a rhinestone encrusted sceptre used by the Queen of The Shrimp and Petroleum Festival. It has an oil derrick intertwined with a shrimp. The event has been going on for many years. I guess that was before the latest oil spill destroyed the shrimp. This being New Orleans, the land of survivors, they will probably have the pageant again this year. Starving. There was also an exhibit on the history of cocktails. I would have been great if I had already ingested several cocktails. Maybe they should put a bar in MOSFAB. I learned exactly zero from the Domino Sugar sugar exhibit. I did learn that when Louisianans make sausage, they turn the intestines inside out and instead of washing the shit off them, they have a special massage they do to scrape it off. Starving enough to get praline after sausage exhibit.
Went back to B&B to recenter myself and connect with the stuff I really wanted to do in Louisiana. I pulled out my Weird Louisiana and Louisiana Off The Beaten Path books. Pulled out map. Everything I want to do is by the creepy refineries. I will definitely go to Angola. Got nice innkeeper to talk to me about outsider art on B&B walls. Got a number of promising leads. Went to see one gallery, and that is a story in itself. Had dinner at tapas place, only going solo for tapas is kind of pointless because you only order one anyhow. They have no liquor license and serve fresh juices. Diners around me bringing their own booze. Note to self: New Orleans restaurants do not have liquor licenses, carry own bottle of wine at all times. The thing I had was corn with sort of a cheesy thousand island dressing and potato sticks on top. It was really yummy even though it sounds gross. They can always make it sound better on the menu. The potato sticks were like the ones your mom got in the can for special entertaining. I wonder if these are from the can? Also had duck and tre leches cake, that Jocelyn my waitress said was actually four leche because of the whipped cream on top. One was good, the other wasn't. We are so programmed to say "good" or "great" when we are asked, that we never say what we are really thinking: This sucks. It's awful. I can't believe I spent good money on that. Jocelyn has a tattoo of a pretty purple rose with a bow and arrow in it. It is on her chest kind of at the collar bone. I made her show me all of it, so she had to pull her shirt aside. What's the significance? I was an archer. Wow. How many archers have you met lately? Sitting on sidewalk eating and watching Pilates studio across street. Pilates doers doing it in studio faced with huge glass front. I guess they're showing off their Pilates bodies, which are really pretty good, but what if you want to do Pilates to get a Pilates body? Show up in the middle of the night with a candle? When walking home saw only bar or barely bar or something bar which is an exercise studio with a ballet barre in it. It also had a huge glass front. Maybe all New Orleans girls already have perfect bodies and are exercising just for fun, like throwing popcorn at some kid's head in the movies. I am fairly blind at night. Walking past various home decoration stores saw a wall painted Neat Auctions. Oh, Neal Auctions. I can't remember the other anecdote but suffice it to say that I thought I saw something about stuff for live people when it was something else. I'll have to look again tomorrow. Oh, and there was the greatest shop next to the tapas place. Robert's Shoe Repair. He had a ton of signs on the building and a bunch of shoes wired to a picture frame outside. I Will Save Your Sole. I Will Heel You. I Will Dye For You. Also, Gucci and Louis Vuitton.
We are all of a certain age, and that means college applications. The lady with the wet hair at breakfast (I'm okay with wet hair at breakfast, but you should probably restrict that to the privacy of your own breakfast nook) is working on college stuff with her daughter. Is she a junior? No, she's just starting the college search. She's a sophomore. That's 15 years old, folks. How on earth is a fifteen year old gonna know anything about college? She's too busy using Proactiv like Jessica Simpson and Julianne Hough do. I was going to do the Peking to Paris in my 1941 Ford convertible last fall. I signed up a long time ago, and completely forgot that it was the fall that I had to hover over my kid until he finished his Common App essay. One of the other ralleyers (ralleyists? rallyers?- this is put on by a British company) said that wasn't a problem. Just hire one of those consultants and they'll take care of getting your kid into the college of his or her choice. The New York parents are vicious like that. They make it tough for those of us who have normal kids that take the SAT twice, tops. Wet hair lady got an earful from some other girl (maybe nice innkeeper's wife?) about going to Smith. After they left, I had a delightful time speaking with a couple whose son is in Tulane and loves it. They are nice, normal people. I hope all nice, normal people have kids that get into the college of their choice.
Enough dicking around. It is time to finally get a key for Woody's doors. I really do think I dropped the original ones in that little space between the back seat and the tailgate where my tools are, but I'll never know until I get another key made anyhow. I figured I would save some time and call the innkeeper's locksmith of choice to make sure he has the blanks for a 70 year-old car. He does not. Gives me the name of another locksmith. I always do better in begging for what I want in person than on the phone, so I headed out to see Dr. Lock. I found it all by myself, with no GPS, so there. I met Joan. Joan was an educator and retired and shopped for 6 years. All she wanted to do is shop for a job. So she and her husband bought this business. Joan is a little hard of hearing, well a lot hard of hearing, and I don't think she quite knows that. But she is sharp as a tack. Her daughter told her not to get in this business, that she would be a slave to it. But, Joan said, I have these. She showed me three or four signs handwritten on manila file folder material (does anyone say manila any more?). Here are a few:- Making Chicken Soup For Grandson
- Carpool Stop
- Deliver Directly To Italy
She puts them in the window whenever she wants a break from the business. No slave, that Joan is.
Went to see Star Locks, with oral directions only, no GPS. Had no problem getting there, although the neighborhood is kinda dicey. Star Locks has purple metallic keys for Mardi Gras, I guess, and ones with black fleurs de lis, for the Saints, I guess. Sure have some fancy keys there, I said. Yeah, we have a lot. But no 1942 Ford keys. They took my ignition key and tried to figure out what blank they needed. You hold it up to a little picture of the profile in a catalog. They use a different catalog than the guy in Louisville, so they have to cross reference the equivalent model. That would be an A25. They ask how long I am in town. I sense a Monteagle coming on. They are ordering it. What the hell. I am in New Orleans in a nice B&B and I'm not going anywhere in particular. Could be worse. Asked for directions to car wash. Hey (whoever is in backroom), who could do a really nice job on this car? No, I interrupted, I just need a place where they have those high pressure hoses that you use. Oh, a self-service. Yes. I don't use any soap on the woodster. Set off with nothing but directions, and I even had to make two of those turns because the street they told me to use is one-way in the wrong direction. Drove and drove for what seemed like an awfully long time, but this is New Orleans, and there are a lot of stop signs, stop lights, and an ungodly number of very large SUVs with no compunction about barging right in front of you. The neighborhood got worse and worse. I finally pulled off into a side street. Asked directions of the only mandarin-speaking member of the community. Great pantomime, though. I was across the street from the car wash.
Washed Woody, and had a heck of a time getting the dead bugs off the front. I think you need a special cleaner for that. Note to self: get special bug cleaner. Pulled out next to rasta guy in van. He likes my car. Hit road that is only one in half a mile that is undergoing dirty construction. At least the car wash only cost me a buck fifty. Pulled in gas station. Really needed gas. Went to pay inside. Middle Eastern guys behind bullet-proof glass. Gas station is also liquor store. Homeless guy looking for money. Wiping Woody's hood with his cuffs. Dude, begging in front of a liquor store is not a smart move. There are a lot of homeless people here, and a lot of addicts. In the whole city. Also a huge number of cops, some on motorcycles. I haven't seen a motorcycle cop since C*H*I*P*S with that sexy Hispanic guy. Even in the poorest parts of Mississippi there are no homeless people. People drink, but they're not drunks. At least not usually. And the only cop I met was Chief Veazly with Car 54 in Tunica. Anyhow, poured some Marvel Oil into the tank with the nifty flexible stem funnel. The Judge would be proud. Filled up. Met Ken. Ken came down here to do construction after Katrina. He is from Nebraska. I think the guy I met at the general store in Clarksdale was from Nebraska. They both told me not to go there. Ken had a Harley t-shirt on and Harley guys usually know hot rod guys. Hot rod guys know flatheads. Woody is a flathead. Yes, Ken did know someone, John Cox. I called Mr. Cox later and he has too many jobs in his shop right now. No mercy for the road weary. But, he did give me another name. It's on my voicemail and I haven't called the guy yet. Maybe the Marvel Oil will grease things up a bit. I could still use a brake adjustment, but if the Star Locks guy can open my tailgate, I'll have my tools and can do it myself.
Went to find Museum of Southern Food and Beverage. Parked behind the aquarium. I hadn't planned to go to the aquarium, but it looked kind of cool from the outside. Sign: Closed today. Oh well. Went through Riverwalk, a hideous mall cum food court with partial views of the river. Asked guy behind desk that isn't information even though everyone thinks so, where museum is. This is Mike. He is bored. If you want to take a walking tour you can fill out a little yellow slip. This is true for Haunted New Orleans tours and swamp tours too. Things you can buy at Riverwalk:- Flip flops at You Go Girl!
- Beatles onesies at Retro Bus (hey, been there, done that, and I really do have the t-shirt already)
- Without Coffee Life Is Crap t-shirt and other Life Is Crap t-shirts trying to capitalize on the backlash from Life Is Good t-shirts that sell by the gazillions
- Mardi Gras mask for your kid-- you go outside the store, make your kid stay in on the other side of the glass with the mask on, take picture and make your kid give mask back (I watched this)
- Sparkly cell phone covers in Mardi Gras colors
- Prints of outsider art (prints?!?)
- 44% off 44 items at Gap for 44 hours only in honor of our forty-four presidents
Walked toward escalators to Level C and saw !!!! visitor information! This is Michael (I have only met Jasmines and Michaels in Louisiana so far. Michael says that it's because Michael has been the fourth most popular boy's name for like 60 years or something). He is not really a visitor information guy. He is a writer and performer, although he hasn't done a lot lately. He gave me his card. I asked Michael where I could find a voodoo guy. The real ones aren't accessible by tourists. I wasn't offended. Michael is cool, and he was just telling me the truth. He did tell me that if I asked a particular bartender at a particular place, I might be able to find the one in the Quarter who is no bullshit. I will do that tomorrow. Michael is as bored as Mike is.
Finally found MOSFAB, a most fabulous name for the Museum of Southern Food And Beverage. This is Kelsey. Kelsey was a history major at Tulane and, well, history is good at a museum, she guesses. She is not from here. She moved all the way down from North Carolina. Starving. The museum sucked. It was all about New Orleans food, not all southern food. I did find the Shrimp and Petroleum Festival interesting. They even had a rhinestone encrusted sceptre used by the Queen of The Shrimp and Petroleum Festival. It has an oil derrick intertwined with a shrimp. The event has been going on for many years. I guess that was before the latest oil spill destroyed the shrimp. This being New Orleans, the land of survivors, they will probably have the pageant again this year. Starving. There was also an exhibit on the history of cocktails. I would have been great if I had already ingested several cocktails. Maybe they should put a bar in MOSFAB. I learned exactly zero from the Domino Sugar sugar exhibit. I did learn that when Louisianans make sausage, they turn the intestines inside out and instead of washing the shit off them, they have a special massage they do to scrape it off. Starving enough to get praline after sausage exhibit.
Went back to B&B to recenter myself and connect with the stuff I really wanted to do in Louisiana. I pulled out my Weird Louisiana and Louisiana Off The Beaten Path books. Pulled out map. Everything I want to do is by the creepy refineries. I will definitely go to Angola. Got nice innkeeper to talk to me about outsider art on B&B walls. Got a number of promising leads. Went to see one gallery, and that is a story in itself. Had dinner at tapas place, only going solo for tapas is kind of pointless because you only order one anyhow. They have no liquor license and serve fresh juices. Diners around me bringing their own booze. Note to self: New Orleans restaurants do not have liquor licenses, carry own bottle of wine at all times. The thing I had was corn with sort of a cheesy thousand island dressing and potato sticks on top. It was really yummy even though it sounds gross. They can always make it sound better on the menu. The potato sticks were like the ones your mom got in the can for special entertaining. I wonder if these are from the can? Also had duck and tre leches cake, that Jocelyn my waitress said was actually four leche because of the whipped cream on top. One was good, the other wasn't. We are so programmed to say "good" or "great" when we are asked, that we never say what we are really thinking: This sucks. It's awful. I can't believe I spent good money on that. Jocelyn has a tattoo of a pretty purple rose with a bow and arrow in it. It is on her chest kind of at the collar bone. I made her show me all of it, so she had to pull her shirt aside. What's the significance? I was an archer. Wow. How many archers have you met lately? Sitting on sidewalk eating and watching Pilates studio across street. Pilates doers doing it in studio faced with huge glass front. I guess they're showing off their Pilates bodies, which are really pretty good, but what if you want to do Pilates to get a Pilates body? Show up in the middle of the night with a candle? When walking home saw only bar or barely bar or something bar which is an exercise studio with a ballet barre in it. It also had a huge glass front. Maybe all New Orleans girls already have perfect bodies and are exercising just for fun, like throwing popcorn at some kid's head in the movies. I am fairly blind at night. Walking past various home decoration stores saw a wall painted Neat Auctions. Oh, Neal Auctions. I can't remember the other anecdote but suffice it to say that I thought I saw something about stuff for live people when it was something else. I'll have to look again tomorrow. Oh, and there was the greatest shop next to the tapas place. Robert's Shoe Repair. He had a ton of signs on the building and a bunch of shoes wired to a picture frame outside. I Will Save Your Sole. I Will Heel You. I Will Dye For You. Also, Gucci and Louis Vuitton.