A Scrap of Paper Found On A New Orleans Sidewalk

You'll never guess what I found, but, you won't have to because I'm going to tell you.  I found a scrap of paper on a New Orleans sidewalk.  

You may not think this is interesting news, so far, but, be patient.  This story about the scrap of paper found on a New Orleans sidewalk contains the stuff from which lauded literature and cult classic movies are made.  A scrap of an idea is the seed of many a grand project and imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.  You never know what you'll find when you wander around New Orleans.

Where are the lay lines?  Where are the boundaries?  In a New Orleans state of mind, the stories that are born on any given day are well worth the good memories that will last you the rest of your life.  If New Orleans didn't exist, someone would have to invent it.

As I was crossing the street, a balled up scrap of paper blew in front of me.  It had writing on it so I picked it up and unballed it.  This is what that scrap of paper found on a New Orleans sidewalk said:

"There was me, Citizen B, and my three pals, Dizzy, Daffy, and the guy we all call The Genius because he's really smart.  Two us four used to be baseball players, and we sat in a sports bar on Poydras Street, us all watching football on the big TVs, socially distanced.

"Three of us have the last name Dean, though only two of us are related, the brothers.  One of us has the last name Bean, that's me.

"When the waitress returned with our credit card receipts, she's the one who noticed the unusual coincidence.  We hadn't noticed this before.  Three deans and a bean, all of us pals.

"We didn't talk about it after she left to take a new table's order.  Who cares?"

The paper was torn off after that.  Too bad.  I was really getting interested.  It must have been a page from somebody's diary.  Why he or she (Citizen B may be a lady) tore half a page out of his or diary, who knows?  I know a lot of people reading this are thinking: who cares?

I'll never know what happened next so it won't do me much good to care about it.  Like many things in New Orleans, this will probably be another forever unanswered question.  There are millions of them.

In New Orleans, people shrug their shoulders, whether it's a scrap of paper found on a New Orleans sidewalk or a diamond ring found on a New Orleans sidewalk.  I always look in the weeds for doubloons.  Fate deals our cards and all we can do is play the game.  

All we can do is roll dem bones to wherever they land.  I hope to be buried in St. Louis Cemetery No. 3.

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New Orleans Onion Mound

Remember when I was with Rick the other day at Kennedy Place, that park that is bounded by Ursulines Avenue, North Rendon Street, and Bell Street?  I didn't mention it then but that is when I discovered the New Orleans onion mound that everyone's been talking about.  It isn't as big as you'd think from the smell but it's real.  People aren't lying.

When I was with Rick the other day, I walked the boundaries of Kennedy Place from the lakeside tip down Bell Street, and then, after crossing the triangle's base, up Ursulines Avenue.  The whole stroll smelled like baby powder but, at one point, on the Ursulines Avenue side, I smelled onions----a lot of raw onions.

It lasted for a second, but it was overpowering during that second.  

It wasn't all the CheeWees Rick is always eating.  Nowadays, all Rick eats is the new taco-flavored CheeWees.  This was the smell of raw onions, a big yellow creole onions----like ten pounds of them.

I didn't mention anything to Rick but, in my head, I decided to investigate later, which is was I exactly did last night, around midnight, long after Rick had gone home until tomorrow.

I took my bicycle in the interest of speed and silence.

I parked my bike under the streetlight and I followed my nose to where the onion smell was coming from.  Here was the New Orleans onion mound I was looking for.  It was a pile of fresh dirt, about the size of a shoebox, in the otherwise manicured park lawn.  That spot smelled like a whole pile of chopped yellow onions.

I had planned ahead and brought a trowel with me.

As I bent down to dig at the source of this overpowering onion smell, I felt a hand my shoulder.  I stood up.  It was Agent 11.

I will explain all about Agent 11 another day.  He is not NOPD.  He is a special agent.  That is all you need to know for the moment.  That's really all you need to know about him ever.  The less you know, the better, but, he is a good man to have on your side in a scuffle.

Agent 11 and I had a conversation.  Back and forth, this and that, give and take.  Nothing special.  We were both cagey.  Agent 11 isn't a cop but he tried to pull a Kojak on me.  I played all Columbo the whole conversation.  

In the end, Agent 11 didn't learn anything from me that he didn't already know.  I didn't learn anything from Agent 11 that I wanted to know.  We both agreed to part company none the wiser.

Agent 11 did tell me to keep away from this sector in Kennedy Place that smells of onions.  "I can't tell you anything more than this," he said, "This spot is not to be disturbed for any reason under direct order of Governor John Bel Edwards.  Got it?"

I tipped my cap to Agent 11.  "Got it," I said.  Who am I do argue with the duly elected governor of the great State of Louisiana?

So, what's the skinny?  Darned if I know.  I am officially persona non grata at the park unless I have business there.  Luckily, I often do have business on Ursulines Avenue.  I'll keep my eyes open.

When we parted company last night, Agent 11 did say one last thing to me.  These were his last words: "Watch yourself, pal.  There are things in New Orleans that will break a man if he isn't strong enough.  I don't need to tell you that.  I'm gonna tell you this, though----this is one of those things that makes New Orleans a Man-Breaker."

Here is another thing Agent 11 said:  "Don't talk about this.  I know you hear a lot around town about this New Orleans onion mound but don't add to the rumors.  No matter what you hear, this one is not related to the New Orleans onion mound Uptown."

"Got it," I said.

I bicycled my way back home alone in the dark.  I've vowed to myself that this won't be my last visit to Kennedy Place after dark.

Stay tuned for more......

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Money Can't Buy You Love in New Orleans

Money can buy a lot of things in New Orleans, things you haven't even thought of, but money can't buy you love in New Orleans.  It can't buy you love anywhere, why should it here?

Some people learn this when they are growing up, because they are loved and their family doesn't have a lot of money.  It is impossible to put a price on love.  It is the only thing a person can't buy.  A kid can't put a quarter into a machine and get love the way he or she can get a gum ball or a handful of chiclets.

From what I've seen, a lot of people learn this the hard way.  Most of the men I know have learned it the hard way, as young men.  Money can't buy you love in New Orleans.  I hear somebody say that in conversation at least once a month.  I hang out with a lot of older men. They should know.

Young men don't know the difference between love and happiness.  To tell the truth, I don't think that many young women know the difference either but I've never heard an older woman say that money can't buy you love in New Orleans.  I think women innately know better.  That's what Jimmy has told me.

I was talking to Jimmy today at Frey Smoked Meat Co., a barbecue restaurant in Mid-City that has a scenic view of the back of Office Depot and of Panera's loading dock from Frey's front patio.  Smoked chicken, pulled pork, ribs, sausage, brisket, and PORK BELLY.  What's not to like?   Jimmy and I both agree that Frey's has the best coleslaw in the city.  It's much better, even, than Stein's.

Jimmy pulled up an old photo on his phone of the Ali vs. Spinks fight in New Orleans 42 years ago.

"I was only thirty then," Jimmy said.  "Five guys I knew from all over the country, they came down for this fight and I showed them around the city.  They wanted to spend all their time in the French Quarter.  I couldn't blame them."

Jimmy was feeling a little under the weather today so he only ordered an iced tea.  He didn't feel like sitting, either, it made him feel stiff, so he stood and talked to me while taking nips at his iced tea while he told me this story.  He doesn't have much of a waist so he hikes up his pants when it occurs to him.

"Bourbon Street and those blocks off Bourbon, on Iberville and Bienville, especially the riverside ones, they were places where a group of 30-year old guys could get into trouble.  Much more than today.  Today they may as well hand out pacifiers at the door.  Back then you if you wanted to suck on a nipple, you'd ----------"  I'm going to censor this last part.  You get the idea.

Use your imagination to imagine what Bourbon Street used to be like in 1978.  Those were different times.  That's what people still think Bourbon Street is like.  It's not even close.  Ask Jimmy.

"We didn't think anything could hurt us.  We didn't think we'd get sick.  We were wild.  We were bulletproof.  I'll tell you, you could get in a lot of trouble back then, and, we did.  They all got the clap.  They're all dead now.  I'm the only one left."  Jimmy didn't say this with any remorse.  It's just a statement of fact that ends most of his stories.  

"Money can't buy you love in New Orleans.  I told them that but they wouldn't listen.  They sure had a good time, though.  They weren't here for love.  They were here to watch the Ali-Spinks fight and have a good time around that.  The had a good time.  They had a good time and they got the clap." Jimmy chuckled.  "When you're young, you don't know any better.  When you get older you have to remind yourself.  Even then you don't always listen."

I asked Jimmy if he had bet money on the fight.

"Even back then I always bet the long shot for the best payoff," Jimmy said.  "I bet Spinks.  Everyone else bet Ali.  I lost money that night but I'm the only one still breathing."

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Here's the link to La Belle's website if you are looking for a place to stay when you visit this wonderful city we call home.  Visit New Orleans like you belong here.  You do belong here.

Good memories are made in New Orleans every day.  The best memories are made at La Belle Esplanade.  You'll see for yourself.  No one is a stranger in New Orleans.  Everyone is a friend they haven't yet met.

Dan Akroyd's Best New Orleans Friend

We were at Old Road Coffee, on the corner of Bayou Road and North Johnson Street.  It's a new coffee shop.  It opened at the start of the coronavirus pandemic.  Nice timing, but, do you know what?  They're making it.  The neighbors are supporting them.  Old Road Coffee has become a socially distanced community gathering place between March 2020 and now.  Imagine what it will be like when they have a shop full of people not wearing masks!

The building used to be a fence company.  Before that, it was a grocery store.  Now, it's the hottest little coffee shop in Tremé.

We were sitting at an outside table on the North Johnson Street side of the sidewalk, the table with the view up Barracks Street.

"I was at Dan Akroyd's place last night," Sparky Etoile said to me.  "I'm Dan Akroyd's best New Orleans friend."  He said it with a straight face.  He believed it.  He's been saying it for years.

All the names in this story have been changed.  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Sparky Etoile is old New Orleans.  He is old, old, old New Orleans.  He says he is related to Marie Laveau.  Maybe he is.  He also says he is related to Governor Nicholls.  That may be true, too.  Sparky Etoile says a lot of things.  He can afford to.  He's rich.

Shortly after the levees broke during Hurricane Katrina, Sparky Etoile developed an unusual fixation with Dan Akroyd (not his real name).  

Whenever we met it was always, "Dan Akroyd's rooftop apartment is getting fixed up faster than my townhouse.  What's he got that I haven't got?" or, "I have the same plumber as Dan Akroyd but the plumber won't give me the time of day, even though he's parked right in front of Dan Akroyd's building.  Would it really kill the plumber to just walk next door to my house instead of making me wait till next week?" or, "Dan Akroyd had a party on his roof on Thursday and all his posh friends were there.  They kept me up all night."

He was intent on becoming friends with Dan Akroyd, maybe, even, Dan Akroyd's best New Orleans friend.  It's not the Dan Akroyd you're thinking of----any resemblance to the Dan Akroyd you're thinking of, living or dead, and this one is purely coincidental.

Sparky Etoile met this woman named Miranda (not her real name).  However it worked out, it turned out that Miranda was close friends with this Dan Akroyd so she arranged for Sparky to meet him.  They had dinner at Antione's, Sparky's treat.  That's how Miranda got Dan Akroyd to agree to it.

After that fateful dinner, as Sparky Etoile recalls it, Miranda falls out of the picture.

Ever since then, all Sparky Etoile ever wants to do is brag about how he is Dan Akroyd's best New Orleans friend.  As Dan Akroyd likes to say, "We can never have too many friends."  

I've met Dan Akroyd.  He's a nice enough guy, not the goof he pretends to be onscreen.  He's well read and he has well-informed opinions, which is not to say that we always agree.  We've had some interesting conversations about President Trump.  I wouldn't try to claim to be Dan Akroyd's best New Orleans friend, but, that's never been my goal.  I would call us acquaintances.  Nothing more and nothing less.

Dan Akroyd knows a lot of people around New Orleans.  It's only four degrees of separation between anyone you meet in New Orleans and Dan Akroyd.  He has made plenty of connections in this wonderful city we call home.

I've never asked Dan Akroyd if Sparky Etoile is his best New Orleans friend.  It's none of my business.  I'll take Sparky's word for it.

When Sparky was telling me about how great it was to hang out with Dan Akroyd while we were sitting at Old Road Coffee this morning, a guy walking his dog walked by.  As soon as the dog heard Sparky say Dan Akroyd's name, the dog stopped in his tracks and stared at Sparky.  

The dog's master tried to pull him along but the dog wouldn't budge.  He just stared and stared at Sparky Etoile.  The dog didn't look at me.  I may as well have not existed as far as the dog was concerned.  He only had eyes for Sparky Etoile.

Sparky put his hands up.  "Relax," he said to the dog, "I'm Dan Akroyd's best New Orleans friend."

Once the dog dog heard that, he nodded like he understood and followed his master up Bayou Road toward that big bright orange house with blue shutters at 2216 Esplanade Avenue.

All the names of people have been changed in this article.  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.  There really is an Old Road Coffee Shop.  I recommend it.  So does Sparky Etoile.  The dog would probably recommend it, too, if the dog could talk.

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My Little New Orleans Pony

Imagine being a grown man but having the same interests and the same trust in other people you still had when you were a child.  Actually, that doesn't sound so bad now that I think about it.  I had a happy childhood.  If if it wasn't, how was I to know?  I met a guy who thinks likes this.  He's a jockey.  That's why the title of this story is: My Little Pony in New Orleans.

Ready? On your marks.  Get set.  ----GO!

Herbert Herbert is half American and half Creole.  His mother's family goes back four generations in Milan (pronounced MY-laan, in case you don't know) and his father's family goes back to when the Spanish were still in charge.  

Herbert Herbert's first name is pronounced American: Herbert.  His second name is pronounced Creole: AY-bear.  It was never a problem for his teachers during roll call, after all, he is born and raised New Orleans.

He's a runt of a guy.  I'm not saying that to be insulting.  Just the facts. There's nothing wrong with a man being short.  It's what inside that counts.  The same is true of women.  Anybody, really.

The quality of a person's character is what matters most.  Nothing else.

MY LITTLE NEW ORLEANS PONY.

Herbert Herbert (say it along with me) races at the Fairgrounds Race Track in Mid-City New Orleans.  He rides full-grown stallions, mares and geldings.  He's won more than a few races, too.  Not many, but more than a few.

The reason jockeys like to be short is because the smaller they are, the less they weigh on the horse.  Herbert Herbert weighs next to nothing compared to you or me.  He's got a winner's physique.  

As a jockey, Herbert Hebert does travel the country on the horse-racing circuit, but New Orleans is his home base.  He is usually in town by the time the ostrich races are run at the Fairgrounds and he has won, placed, and showed in the ostrich races every year that they've been held.  During ostrich season, he is more than a bit of a celebrity around the Fairgrounds Neighborhood.

He last time I talked to Mr. Herbert, it was at the end of last ostrich season.  We were sitting next to each other at the bar at the Seahorse Saloon.  He had a pint of Dixie and so did I.  We have similar taste in beer and in horseflesh.  He knows that I always bet him to win, place, or show in every race.  I know a lot of people who do it, too.  It doesn't matter what nag that they put him on.  We know that New Orleans' best jockey knows how to make every horse his little New Orleans pony.

That's what he whispers into the horse's ear when they're in the gate together before the race starts.  He leans over into the horse's ear and he whispers so softly that no other horse can here, "You're my little New Orleans pony, baby.  You're my little New Orleans pony."

When the guns go off the horse is usually off like a shot.  Herbert Herbert doesn't always win, place or show every race but the horses he rides run with heart.  I guess you could say he's a horse-whisperer if you want to.

He doesn't speak ostrich but somehow the ostriches know that they are their best little New Orleans ostrich to him.  Do you even know where an ostrich's ears are on its head?  The answer may surprise you.

Herbert Herbert was crying in his beer that afternoon when I was talking to him.  Sure, it's great to be an award winning ostrich jockey in New Orleans but that wasn't exactly what he dreamed of when he was just much younger, a wee jockey.

"I saw myself as winning the Kentucky Derby," he told me.  "Believe me, I'm grateful for my prize money from the ostrich races but the ostriches are just dumb birds.  It's no way to get rich.  We don't have any control over them.  We just hang on as best we can.  It's not like in the Black Panther movie.  It's all dumb luck on dumb birds.  It's a novelty.  I'm happy for the bucks but I'm not proud of it."

He took another sip of his Dixie.  "Ostrich racing isn't a real sport, no matter what anyone tells you.  You and I may as well go and bet on the cockroach races in the back room here.  We have just as much chance of predicting the winner."  He looked toward the door that leads to the back room of the Seahorse Saloon but he decided to keep talking instead.

"I've been lucky with the ostriches but it's all been dumb, dumb luck.  Now, if I were to win the Kentucky Derby, that would take some skill, me and the horse, my little New Orleans pony crossing the finishing line, winning the Kentucky Derby.  Now, that would be something." He started to cry.

I know as much about horse racing as I do about ostrich racing (and cockroach racing, for that matter).  All I know is that if Herbert Herbert is the jockey, I'm betting on him.  I think he's too old to stay in the sport much longer, though.  I think that his days are numbered.

Not being able to race horses won't kill him.  His plan is to stay on at the Fairgrounds to exercise the horses around the track to keep them fit.  He loves to groom horses and to take care of them.  He has formulated his own liniment so he has a pipe dream to manufacture and market that.

There is nothing wrong with dreaming big, especially when we're young.  

There is nothing wrong with settling with what you have after trying your best to follow that dream.  Sure, things could have worked out differently.  You could have gone to dental school and you'd be very comfortable, financially, at this point in your life.  

C'est la vie, as they say in New Orleans.

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A New Orleans Living Statue

Ignore the clichés about New Orleans if you want to visit this wonderful city we call home like you belong here.  We don't eat gumbo and fried shrimp po' boys three meals a day.  I was talking to René about this yesterday.  He makes his living as a New Orleans living statue.

Rene's family goes all the way back to Bienville.  His family has New Orleans roots that go deep down into the mud.  Ask him about anybody and he knows them.  He has cousins in all strata of New Orleans society, Uptown, Downtown, Leonidas, Black Pearl, Uptown, Garden District, Vieux Carré, the Marigny, the Bywater, Desire, St. Roch, Lakeview, Pontchartrain Park, out in the East, in the Lower 9, even in St. Bernard Parish and in Old Metarie.  René is part of the warp and the woof of New Orleans.

René makes his living being a living statue in Jackson Square.  You can have someone take your picture with him for $5.00.  

René walks from his home in Tremé to the French Quarter every day.  He takes Governor Nicholls Street.  Every part of him, including his clothes, is painted silver.  He's a living statue.  He is an honest-to-goodness New Orleans living statue.  You can touch him.

It isn't easy to make a living in New Orleans but it isn't hard, either, during normal times.  A monkey in a zoo can do it.  Give the people what they want.  Monkey Hill is the highest point in Orleans Parish.

Rene' is getting older than he looks.  He is much older than he used to be.

When the bells ring at St. Louis Cathedral, Rene' makes the sign of the cross, even when he's a statue.  He makes his living being a New Orleans living statue.  Pay attention when the cathedral bells ring.

Even a man painted silver has a heart.  In New Orleans, everyone has heart, brains, courage and a home.  Gold, silver, bronze, New Orleans. This is the Age of New Orleans.  This, too, shall pass.  An old city knows how to ride out a storm.

René used to be a waiter at a swanky steak house Uptown that has since gone out of business.  Then he moved to a swanky steak house in Mid-City called The Beef Baron.  Since the Beef Baron closed, he's been making his living as a living statue in the French Quarter.  

Tips for being a server are good at a steak restaurant (nothing is inexpensive in a good steak restaurant) were good but the money earned by a living statue is better.  René hadn't made so much reliably good money in all his waiting career.  Painting himself silver has paid very well, and, it's all cash too.  

No IRS.

No 401(k).  

No unemployment benefits, either.

When no one from out of town is in New Orleans to marvel at a living statue and have their picture taken with him, there is no income.  René works in the informal economy in a city that thrives because of tourism.  All cash.  No records.  Good time, guaranteed.

No tourists: no money.  No money: no honey.  No woman: no smile.  No rent: get a tent.  Rene' is thinking about getting a tent.

Rene' is broke in New Orleans.  It's no wonder some people call this wonderful city, "The Man-Breaker."  September is Man-Breaker Month on (this) A New Orleans State of Mind blog.  Welcome aboard.  The stories for this month will be about how New Orleans breaks men.  Next month being October, we will continue our annual tradition of a month of weird stories.  Come November, we'll be accentuating the positive the way we are known to do most months of the year.

Anyhow...

I was talking to René yesterday and he was complaining how there haven't been any tourists to speak of in New Orleans since the middle of March when the COVID-19 pandemic was official.  

"I'm in a funk.  Most days, it's hard for me to paint myself silver to come down here," René said.  "Most days, since March, I don't make any money.  I'm going to hock for silver spray paint."

René sat down on the curb on the corner of Royal and Conti Streets and I sat down next to him.  He said, "There's no work.  Hotels are closed, restaurants are closed, anything I'd be good at is closed, and, if they are open, a thousand people are applying for that job.  Who's going to hire a washed-up living statue like me?"

I would have put my arm around him to console him but I didn't want to get silver paint all over my clothes.  It's impossible to get that stuff out in the laundry.

A lady was walking down Royal Street.  I waved at her.  "Lady," I said, "would you mind taking a picture of the two us here on the curb."

"Sure," she said, giggling.

I handed her my phone and she took a picture of René and I on the curb.  She took another one to give us a choice of two.  I thanked her and she walked away.

I gave René ten dollars.  I got two pictures.  

"Thanks, Cousin," René said to me.  "Can you put this story on the internet so that our other cousins can read it and maybe come get their pictures taken, too?"

I said I would do it.  This is it.

THIS BLOG IS SPONSORED BY LA BELLE ESPLANADE.  

We don't allow comments on this blog because I got tired of deleting all the spam.  If you want to be notified when new posts go up, follow the Facebook Page of our sponsor:  La Belle Esplanade.  You can always comment on their Facebook page.  La Belle has a lively community of over 13,000 followers.  Join the club.

Here's the link to La Belle's website if you are looking for a place to stay when you visit this wonderful city we call home.  Visit New Orleans like you belong here.  You do belong here.

Good memories are made in New Orleans every day.  The best memories are made at La Belle Esplanade.  You'll see for yourself.  No one is a stranger in New Orleans.  Everyone is a friend they haven't yet met.

New Orleans Bacon-Stuffed Mushrooms

New Orleans is many things but it isn't jejune.  There is nothing naive, simplistic, or superficial about New Orleans.  The texture of New Orleans culture is densely woven and richly textured.  You never know what you'll find when you walk under a bead tree in New Orleans.  It may be half a recipe for New Orleans Bacon-Stuffed Mushrooms.

If that introduction doesn't whet your appetite for the rest of this story, I don't know what could.  Let's go.

I was walking under one of the bead trees on Orleans Avenue, along the Endymion Route.  My eyes were focused on the ground.

As I had approached this particular tree, I had seen a man walking his dog.  The dog was peeing against the tree and when it was done, the dog turned and bit the man.  Dog bites man isn't much of a story.  

Wait.  There's more.  

There will be a recipe for New Orleans bacon-stuffed mushrooms in a little bit.  Hang in here.

When the dog bit the man, something fell out of the man's pocket before he ran away with the dog chasing him.  The man held the leash all the way down the street with the dog chasing him.  They were connected by the leash.  Neither one could get away from the other.  That's what's called a co-dependent relationship.  

Either one of them could have tripped but neither the man nor the dog fell to the ground while I was watching them.  They were both running like the Devil, himself, was chasing them, too.  It was an accident waiting to happen.

If I had been in a comical frame of mind, I would have found it funny.  The whole episode was like a scene in a Buster Keaton movie.  Since I was far enough away, it was all silent slapstick pantomime from my vantage point.  

I wasn't in a comical frame of mind.  With a nose for news, I wanted to see what had fallen out of the man's pocket.  That's why I didn't watch man and dog run all the way down the street until they turned a corner.  I was focused on the ground under the bead tree.

There was a neatly folded scrap of paper, folded into crisp sixteenths, like after the guy made each fold, he pressed down and rubbed on it to make sure it was really, really folded real good.  It was a solid little rectangle of paper.

When I unfolded it, it was half a recipe for New Orleans Bacon-Stuffed Mushrooms.

The recipe was neatly written in a firmly masculine, no-frills, script.  The person who wrote is may be a draftsman, the penmanship was that precise.  It was easy to read.  Here is what the paper said:

New Orleans Bacon-Stuffed Mushrooms:

8 oz. softened cream cheese

1/2 lb. bacon

1 tbsp. chopped onion

1/4 tsp. garlic powder

1 lb. whole mushrooms

NEW ORLEANS BACON-STUFFED MUSHROOMS.

That's all the paper said.  There must have been a page two that hadn't fallen out of the man's pocket.  Maybe the dog already ate it.

CREOLE-STUFFED MUSHROOMS:

I've never seen bacon-stuffed mushrooms in New Orleans.  Creole stuffing is crab-based, as a general rule.  One of my favorite dishes in the city is the stuffed crab at Sammy's, on Elysian Fields Avenue.  That's a double whammy: crab stuffed with crab stuffing.

Based on the part of the recipe I found under the bead tree, New Orleans Bacon-Stuffed Mushrooms are, what people on the Downtown side of Canal Street call, "Protestant Food."  It's good enough but it's best when enjoyed in the Garden District.

I spent a lot of time under the bead tree, and around it, looking to see if a second page had been dropped.  I only retrieved this one page.  There wasn't another page under the bead tree.  That's all the writer wrote that we can read.  

Someone, somewhere, probably Uptown, maybe in Metairie, can read us the rest of it.  They may be reading it now, at this very moment that you are reading about this part.

I hope the man didn't trip while being chased by the dog he was tied to.  That would be a tragedy.  A lot of people call New Orleans, "The Man-Breaker."  It's true.  We live in a city that has a reputation.

Even if the man got home okay, he only has half his recipe for New Orleans Bacon-Stuffed Mushrooms.  He knows how to prepare the ingredients but he doesn't know what all the ingredients are, or what their proportions should be.  Many a meal has been ruined for the very same reasons.  

Taking action with half the necessary information has been the ruin of many a meal, and a lot of other things, too.  I am sure it will all work out okay.  I hope and pray that it all works out for him, and for his little dog, too.

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There Are Nice Smells in New Orleans, Too.

I saw Rick sitting on a folding chair at the tip of the riverside triangular park where Bell Street, North Rendon Street, and Ursulines Avenue cross each other.  It sounds like it should be a busy intersection but it's not.  It's shady and peaceful and people walk their dogs or just walk themselves about the neighborhood as a treat to better enjoy any given New Orleans day.  It's a nice neighborhood.  There are nice smells in New Orleans, too.

Rick lives about twelve blocks uptown from this park, which is, officially, known as Kennedy Place.  

Nobody calls the park Kennedy Place but that's what Google Maps says so it must be true.  There is no sign and there's certainly no statue of John F. Kennedy, or Ted Kennedy, or Kennedy Broussard who is a friend of mine who lives in New Orleans East.

Kennedy Broussard has done a lot of great things in his life but it's too early to commission a statue and name a park after him.  Still, anything can happen.  Someone should start a petition.

Rick lives a little Uptown from Faubourg St. John, as the real estate agents like to call this neighborhood.  For him, it is totally worth the walk to Ursulines Avenue, every day, with his beat-up, rusty folding chair under his arm.  He usually packs a lunch, too.  His two favorite foods in the whole world are celery and popcorn----and he's a Creole!

His third favorite food is CheeWees.  He may be eccentric but he still has plenty of old-school New Orleanian in him.  That said, they just came out with a new flavor of CheeWees: taco.  Rick has been eating a lot of taco CheeWees since they first appeared in stores.   

The only reason I know that Rick has been eating more taco Cheewees than all the traditional flavors, combined, isn't because he leaves empty bags all over the park.  Quite the contrary.  Except for the four depressions in the grass where Rick always plants his chair every day, he leaves no trace.  He may be many things but he is not a litterbug.

The worst thing that can happen to you when you want to go someplace in New Orleans is to be stuck behind a garbage truck.  Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop.  It doesn't smell very pleasant behind a New Orleans garbage truck, even when the truck is empty.  Luckily, there are nice smells in New Orleans, too.

I know Rick has been eating mostly taco Cheewees because I see him all the time with one hand in a bag that his other hand is holding.

I drive down Ursulines Avenue all the time on business.  Between jobs, I park on Bell Street, the street with the least traffic, and chitchat with Rick until I have something else to do.  Nobody has ever accused me of living an interesting life.  

I've learned a lot about Rick these past few months.  He'll even sit there when it's raining.

Rick doesn't own an umbrella.  It has something do with him being raised a Christian Scientist, which is a rare thing in New Orleans, even though there is The Fourth Church of Christ, Scientist in Lakeview.  I can't really follow the story as he tells it, so you'll have to take my word for it.  I have some friends who live on Nashville Avenue and they've told me they've seen him at The First Church of Christ, Scientist.  

There isn't a Second or Third Church of Christ, Scientist in New Orleans.  I don't have any reason to learn why.

I'm Roman Catholic so when I talk to Rick on rainy days I wear a rain coat and shrimp boots.  I also carry an umbrella.  I've learned not to offer it to Rick.

Here is something else I've learned: Rick told me that Rick is his nickname.  His full name is Patrick Bonaventure Expedite Augustine.  That doesn't sound like a Christian Scientist name to me.  It's pure Creole, if you know what I mean.

If I'm at Pal's Lounge, just a few blocks away on North Rendon Street, I'll ask if Rick has been in.  "Which Rick?"  "Rick Steen," I'll say.  "Yeah, he was here earlier with that beat up folding chair of his.  He got a Dixie and sat in his chair on the sidewalk."

Everyone knows Patrick Bonaventure Expedite Augustine as Rick Steen.  He doesn't have a drivers' license so there is no way to prove what his real name is.

On one sunny day, having nothing better to do, I asked Rick why he always sits at this intersection of Bell Street, North Rendon Street, and Ursulines Avenue.

"Can't you smell it?" he said to me.  He tilted back his head and took a deep inhalation.  His chest swelled.  "Aaaaah," he said with a smile to no one in particular.

He looked at me again, realizing I was still there.  "It smells like baby powder here."  He closed his eyes and smiled to himself.

I took a deep breath.  You know what?  It does smell like baby powder at this intersection.  There are nice smells in New Orleans.  Some of them are where you least expect them.

Rick told me he had met a woman in this very park thirty years ago.  She smelled like baby powder.  Rick told me that she died later that very year.  Ever since, he says, this park has smelled like baby powder.  It has smelled like baby powder for 30 years.  He comes here every day to honor her memory.

Now that he's mentioned it to me, I can't help but smell baby powder when I'm there.  Call me as crazy as Rick but I've walked the boundaries of the park, along Bell Street and along Ursulines Avenue, and in the middle of the park, too, and, it's true.  The whole park smells like baby powder.

It smells most strongly of baby powder where Rick plants his chair every day.  At the tip of the triangle where it touches North Rendon Street.  New Orleans is a very interesting city.

I asked Rick if he knew this lady well.

"I wanted to marry her," he told me.  "I wanted to raise a family with her.  I was going to propose to her right on this very spot, the spot where we first met."

"Then what happened?" I asked.

"Then, she died," he said.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  He exhaled and took another.  After the third time, he smiled to himself and looked at me.  "What else do you want to know?" he asked me.

I haven't brought up the subject with him ever again.

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Here's the link to La Belle's website if you are looking for a place to stay when you visit this wonderful city we call home.  Visit New Orleans like you belong here.  You do belong here.

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Down And Out In New Orleans

The last time I saw Mitch, he was lying in the gutter.  It wasn't just any gutter, either.  He was in the Florida Avenue Canal.  Luckily, it hadn't rained recently so the canal was mostly empty except for a trickle of water in the deepest part of the cement ditch.  Here he was, down and out in New Orleans.

Other than Mitch and thick weeds, there was trash, a couple of tires, a few shopping carts filled with tattered plastic shopping bags and full diapers.  When I stopped to see if that was really Mitch, the stink from the canal was overwhelming.  This is a part of New Orleans that few tourists visit.  It's a part of New Orleans few New Orleanians visit.  As Jimmy says, it's a good neighborhood to take someone if you're a kidnapper.

Jimmy was born in New Orleans.  Mitch wasn't.  Jimmy's been down and out in New Orleans but he's gotten back up.  Here's to hoping the same will happen with Mitch.

Mitch moved to New Orleans in the fall of 2008, one of the bright-eyed and eager kids looking to help the city rebuild after Katrina.  He had visited the city once before, as part of a church group to help rebuild houses in 2006.  He felt drawn to the place after he got home to Ohio and he couldn't focus on his school work after that.  All he could think of was getting back to New Orleans.

It took awhile.  He had to graduate from high school first.  Then, he had to flunk out of community college.  Then, he had to ride his bicycle down here, doing odd jobs along the way.  That last part took four months.

When Mitch finally got to New Orleans he started out doing odd jobs.  He stayed at the St. Vincent Guest House on Magazine Street, which, as of this writing is being renovated into a boutique hotel.  It was originally an orphanage.  When Mitch was there he shared a bunk bed in a room with two double bunks and one bathroom that was equipped with a toilet, a sink, a mirror, and a walk-in shower. 

From what I know about Mitch, which is more than I care to admit, he made some friends while he was bunked at the St. Vincent Guest House.  It's in the Lower Garden District, so I'm sure he met all sorts of people.  Some of them were nogoodniks while others were trust fund babies, most were probably working stiffs like you and me.  I'm sure he took the good with the bad, the way anyone would.  He was young then.  

He's not an old man now.  For some people, it doesn't take long to become down and out in New Orleans.  For some people, it just comes naturally, like rolling into the Florida Avenue Canal.

After knocking around New Orleans for a year and finally passing the legal age at which he could order a drink at a bar, and, thus, able to become a bartender, Mitch became a bartender at a 24-hour neighborhood joint that I'm not going to name.  At first he was good at his job.  He was on an upward trajectory, making good tips.  It was more spending money than he had ever earned before.

As with a lot of people who think they know what New Orleans is all about without really getting it, Mitch got caught up in a life that isn't advantageous to retiring with a fat 401(k).  He never committed a crime, neither a felony nor a misdemeanor, and he was alway polite.  Everyone from Ohio is polite.

He did, however, embark on a personal downward spiral.  It didn't take him long to become down and out in New Orleans.

You can drink on the street in New Orleans and no one will bat an eye.  Public drunkeness is not a crime here.  New Orleanians have a high tolerance for alcohol. 

Nobody bats an eye, even in this day of age, when businesspeople have cocktails at lunch.  Most public drunkards in New Orleans are lovable.  You have to be a really nasty drunk, really nasty, to be kicked out of a New Orleans barroom.  The problem is, most nasty drunks are too drunk to realize when they are being really nasty.  They think everyone's against them even when it's the other way around.

Mitch turned into one of those guys and he turned that way pretty quickly.  You can blame demon rum if you want to.  Mitch did tell me one time, "The Devil made me do it."

It takes two to tango, even in New Orleans.

Mitch lasted at his bartender gig for eleven months.  The boss was complaining the last two months that Mitch was off his game, was irresponsible, was giving away too much free booze, was always late for his shift, was passed out behind the bar when his relief showed up. That's no way to be a career bartender, even in New Orleans.  

New Orleans bartenders have a code of ethics and they live up to a higher standard.  Esprit de corps.  Serving the public is not just an honor, it is a privilege.  Tip your bartender well.  He or she is carrying on a proud profession that is steeped in tradition in this wonderful city we call home.

Mitch didn't have enough time to dope that out.  Finally, his boss had had enough the last time he found Mitch passed out, drunk, on the ladies room floor.  He hauled Mitch out by his shirt collar and a belt loop and he tossed Mitch out on the street.  "And don't you ever come back," the boss said.  Mitch just dozed on the sidewalk, oblivious that his life had just taken a turn for the worse.  Down and out in New Orleans and not even age 22.

*********

How may years ago was it that Mitch lost that job?  I don't even know. Time moves at a different pace in New Orleans.  We've seen each other off and on over the years.  Each time he looked worse than the time before.  I probably did, too.  Time takes its toll on us all even when it moves at a different pace.

Mitch was lying in the Florida Avenue Canal, downstream from Lowe's, when I found him.  I went down into the canal to fetch him out.  Whoof!  What a stench down there.  It was worse than a City Park garbage can after a crawfish boil.

I hauled him up, fireman's carry, onto Florida Avenue and slapped him awake.  He didn't know what hit him.  "Where am I?" he finally mumbled after he opened his eyes.

"Well, Mitch," I told him, "you're a long, long way from where you want to be.  It's a long, long way.  It's too far you to see."

Mitch closed his eyes again.  "I can see it," he said.  "I see the promised land.  It looks like Ohio."

Yeah, for some people it may look like Ohio.  It takes a special kind of man to stand up to the temptations he finds in New Orleans and not break.  Mitch broke.

I called United Cab Company and, when the taxi arrived, I paid the fare to Bridge House for Mitch.  I gave the cabbie a $20 tip to get him there and I apologized for the smell.  

"Don't worry about it," the cabbie said.  "I get calls like this all the time.  The next time you have a real stinker like this, though, do me a favor and call an Uber."  I told him I would even though I don't have the app.  I like to give United Cab my business.

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The Man With Weak Knees

He grew up bowlegged like a cowboy.  Growing up, all the other kids called him, "Weak Knees."  It didn't help that his last name was Weekny.  His name is Bartholomew Weekny, born, raised, and still residing in the 8th Ward of New Orleans, and proud of it.  Go Wild Goats!  This man with weak knees knows where he came from and he's proud of it.

You can try to break a man's pride, but he'll hold on to every part of it, even if it's broken.  What is broken is destined to be repaired.  What doesn't kill us makes us stronger.

New Orleans is like a china teacup that has been crazy-glued together once, twice, a couple hundred times.  Where some people see cracks, and other people see scars, people in a New Orleans state of mind see laugh wrinkles.  New Orleans has a crooked smile.

The man with weak knees is a widower.  He was married to a genetic woman and they were very much in love.  They fell in love shortly before they were married.  It only took a month of getting to know each other for him to propose and her to accept.  There is someone for everyone.

Here's a note to the young people out there, weak-kneed or not: When two pieces of a puzzle fit together, you don't need to force them and pretend that they do.  What is meant to be is meant to be.  Welcome to the authentic New Orleans state of mind where all sorts of permutations follow their natural destinies, everything falls into place when you let it.  Let it be.  Laissez les bon temps rouler.

Don't try too hard.  New Orleans is great.

Bart Weekny, the man with weak knees, married a runner.  She competed in triathlons.  She was a swimmer, a bicyclist, and a runner.  It kept her busy exercising, that's for sure, but she always had time for her family.  In New Orleans, in all of Louisiana, probably everywhere that people have hearts, family comes first.

To this day, Bart Weekny, the man with weak knees, can barely do one squat, and that's while holding onto the edge of his dining room table.  When he was growing up, his classmates called him a pansy.  

Children can be so cruel but who cares?  In New Orleans, they grow out of it.  The subjects of their taunts grow out of it, too.  Every New Orleanian is a friend to every other.  The only thing worth nursing in New Orleans is either a baby or a bottle of Dixie.  Nothing good ever comes from nursing a grudge.

When Bart Weekny, the man with weak knees, tried to join the US Army after graduating high school, he was rejected.  He couldn't pass the physical exam because of his weak knees.  Then, he tried to enlist in the US Air Force and they rejected him, too.  He resigned himself to civilian life and he's very proud of what he's accomplished----he still is, even after New Orleans broke him.

You know New Orleans as The Big Easy, but a lot of people who know better call New Orleans The Man-Breaker.  Welcome to Man-Breaker Month on the New Orleans State Mind Blog.  

It's going to last all of September!

Bart Weekny's wife drowned in 2018.  This isn't a happy story.

She was swimming in Lake Pontchartrain, off Lakeshore Drive.  Officially, nobody is supposed to do it but all triathletes do it all the time for their training.  There aren't any beaches to speak of in New Orleans.  

It's not that the water is unsafe.  Lake Pontchartrain is cleaner than it has been in decades, thanks to the advocacy of the Pontchartrain Conservancy.  It's the shore here that isn't safe.   

The south shore of Lake Pontrchartrain along the New Orleans coastline is entirely manmade. When New Orleans was founded, the south shore was all swamp.  Nobody ever went broke investing in real estate so the swamp was filled in and now the shore of the lake in New Orleans is a series of concrete steps that lead into the water with expensive house lots as far as the eye can see from on top of the levee.

The steps at the lake aren't there for recreation.  As everyone who grew up here knows, a walk down those steps is a walk to Davy Jones' locker.  

Lake Pontchartrain is only about 12 feet deep but people who swim off the shore of New Orleans are often carried by the undertow under the steps and, unlike the topsides of the steps, the undersides are rough concrete, as corrugated as a 100,000 piranhas' upper jaws.  Ouch.

The undersides of the steps will rough up a human body caught there into chum for the blue crabs and the fishes.  

It takes a while for the tumbling action of the water under the concrete shoreline to reduce a corpse to nothing.  It's never a pretty sight when the divers fetch a corpse from under the steps.  The staff at the Orleans Parish Coroner's Office dreads these arrivals, and they see all sorts of gruesome stuff over the course of their careers.

The steps along Lake Pontchartrain are meant to disperse the overhead force of waves hitting the shore, preventing erosion, and, in the worst-case scenario, hurricane surge.  This creates a strong undertow, an undertow so strong that only the strongest swimmers can beat it.  

Sometimes, even a triathlete can't overcome the brute force of the undertow and he or she, in this case she, gets caught under the steps and gets tossed around over and and over, struggling at first, unconscious at second, and finally dead.  Their bodies become as unrecognizable as---- I don't know----it's just unrecognizable and I take no pleasure thinking about it.  You shouldn't either.  Let's just get on with the story.

The man with weak knees had no choice.  He had to look at what was left to identify what the coroner proposed was his wife's dead body.  He fainted when they lifted the sheet.  Don't even think try to imagine what he saw.  It was terrible.  Nematodes had already started to lay eggs by the time the police divers found the corpse.

We're not paid to look at these things the way coroners and their assistants are.  The man with weak knees wasn't paid to do it either.  His job was to look and say what he saw out of duty.  It was worse than jury duty.  He will never forget that trip to the coroner.   

After he fainted, he had to look a second time to make a positive ID.  His weak knees buckled but he didn't pass out that time.  One of the assistants held him up.  He didn't recognize anything about the bleached out, bloodless, tattered and masticated meat and bones on the slab but the concrete and the fish had left one thing on the body's left ring finger.  You don't have to be a genius to figure this out.  It was a wedding ring.

"Patrice!" the man with weak knees cried out in anguish when he saw the ring.  Then, he fainted again. 

Patrice Weekny is buried in St. Vincent de Paul Cemetery No. 2, on Louisa Street.  It's the neighborhood cemetery.  The man with weak knees walks there from their home every Sunday to visit her grave.  It's not too far for him.

Bart Weekny, the man with weak knees, is broken but not beaten.  His heart is broken.  He doesn't know if he will ever love another woman again.  Certainly not like he loved Patrice.  No one could ask him to that.

He still has love in his life.  He is raising three beautiful children, The fruit of their marriage, true New Orleanians, each one.  They come from strong parents, even if their father has weak knees.  When love abounds in a household, what can go wrong?  He does what he can to be the best father he can be.

Bart Weekny is still bowlegged as a cartoon cowboy but everyone who knows him sees he stands tall.  It can't be easy but he's doing it.   

********

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The Man With Tiny Feet.

 

He is a regular-sized man except for his feet.  Good looking, he has a nice personality but his tiny feet are his most interesting feature.  If you are interested in that that kind of thing, you can't help but notice.

Even just standing around waiting for a table or a streetcar, he looks like a ballerina on his tiny feet.  It's a genetic trait.  His parents didn't bind his feet like a Chinese concubine.  Despite that, all his adult life he has walked like one.

It wasn't easy.

If you were an insurance agent, how many clients do you think would like to watch you mince up to the door on little baby feet like you were standing on tip toes, swaying the whole time, and then show you out after signing a contract?  

Don't even try to tell me that the whole time he'd be talking to you from the waist up about insurance from the other side of his desk you wouldn't be thinking of his tiny, tiny feet under the desk.  You would be.  You know you would be.

Who trusts a fully grown man who wears toddler shoes?

People's prejudice against the tiny-footed isn't justified, but being tiny-footed is no way to make a living selling life insurance.

When he was working in a law firm in Chicago, his co-workers would call him Geisha behind his back.  "Shhh.  Here comes Geisha."  The man with tiny feet isn't deaf.

Imagine how easy it would be to trip if you had tiny feet.  It's even worse in reality.

This guy, who was the nicest you guy you can meet, worked a lot of jobs up North, by which I mean Illinois Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, and Vermont.  To hear him tell it, it was no tiptoe through the tulips.  He wasn't discriminated against but he couldn't keep up on the fast track up the career ladder compared to even his most flat-footed colleagues.  That's when the man with tiny feet decided to move to New Orleans.  

If there is any city in these fifty nifty United States that loves someone who feels awkward everywhere else, New Orleans is here for them.  New Orleans loves them, sight unseen, COD.

So, the man with tiny feet moved to New Orleans is 2016.  He hasn't regretted it except for the one day when he tossed off his flip flops on the Big Lake boardwalk in City Park.  It was a hot afternoon.  It was two weeks ago.  It was 2:00 in the afternoon, which, most summer months, is the hottest time of a New Orleans day.

He wanted to sit on the bench and dangle his tiny toes in the water, so, that's what he did.

A box turtle bit his little left big toe.  The turtle clamped down hard and drew blood.  The minnows started to swarm in the area.

The man with tiny feet pulled his feet out of the water, fast.  The box turtle let go once the man's foot was at maximum velocity, i.e. as the man toppled over backwards off the bench.  It was real slapstick.

The turtle landed in the water on the other side of the boardwalk and hid in the reeds.  A turtle can be smart sometimes.

A crowd gathered, as crowds tend to do at such occasions.  Someone made a makeshift pressure dressing out of his face mask and tied it to the man with tiny feet's tiny left foot.

"You know you've got tiny feet, man," the amateur medic said.

The man with tiny feet just grimaced.  His toe was is so much pain.  He was afraid he would get gangrene, what with all the duck, goose, and swan excrement in the water, not to mention all the turtles and fish.  Nobody has ever claimed that Big Lake is clean.  Nobody.

The man with tiny feet was quite the patient of interest at UMC.  There is nothing like a trip to a medical facility to make a person feel humiliated.  Not everybody, but, if you are a special case, in a teaching hospital like UMC, then every resident and medical student is going to parade behind the doctor into your room to get an eyeful that they may never see again.

That's how the man with tiny feet felt.  "Notice the patient's congenital micropedis," the physician-in-charge would always start his examination.  He was only in the hospital for about two hours.  They gave him antibiotics to take at home.

The man with tiny feet is fine now.  I just came back from visiting him at his house.  He is none the worse for wear.  

He told me, he is used to being noticed for his tiny feet, but he didn't appreciate being a stop on medical student tours every ten minutes.  It's not like he's the only man with tiny feet.  He says he knows how people who live in the French Quarter feel with one ghost tour after another stopping in front of their house.  

There is an international tiny foot society,  My friend with tiny feet is a member.  They meet up every three years in some different city in a different country, all over the world.  He is hoping they could congregate in New Orleans for their next international meeting.  He's trying to pull some strings.

I told him I know the perfect place for people with tiny feet to stay.  Anybody, really, no matter what size their feet.  That place is the sponsor of this blog: 

LA BELLE ESPLANADE

We don't allow comments on this blog because I got tired of deleting all the spam.  If you want to be notified when new posts go up, follow the Facebook Page of our sponsor:  La Belle Esplanade.  You can always comment on their Facebook page.  La Belle has a lively community of 13,500 followers.  Join the club.

Here's the link to La Belle's website if you are looking for a place to stay when you visit this wonderful city we call home.  Visit New Orleans like you belong here.  Like the man with tiny feet, you do belong here.