Thanks to an email from a traveling companion, I can add a few details to the story in the last post…
Our friend’s name was Willie Metcalf. Our friend also got lost on our journey to the out-of-way jazz club, increasing our fear that we may not make it out alive. And, lastly, when we managed to get back together at the end of the night, we gave Willie a ride home in our RV, sharing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (a staple on the journey) with him. Apparently, it didn’t agree with him.
Thanks, Dan.
Posted on 6 September 2005
1993. Six of us from university piled into an RV (owned by the rather trusting parents of one our members) and headed south, with the vague plan to see New Orleans and perhaps a beach somewhere too. The days in the Big Easy blur together now, my memory a victim of time and age, but certain details I hope remain.
We spent a long afternoon wandering about the fringes of the French Quarter, lounging in Jackson Square and hunting used books. I’m still shocked what I found that day (Wittgenstein and A.J. Ayer), in the time before the rise of e-commerce and Barnes and Noble, when I would routinely spend as much on the thin paperbacks for my philosophy courses as literature students spent on their anthologies. That day, however, both volumes were mine for less than $10.
As night fell, we went further into the Quarter, looking for what we came for — jazz. Unlike most of the other college students on Bourbon Street, we had no interest in cheap drinks and strip clubs. We started the evening as anyone should, standing in line to enter Preservation Hall. In one sense it is a tourist experience, but the band does preserve the roots of city, playing old fashioned, big band jazz. After the show, we wanted something a bit more authentic, so we walked up and down Bourbon Street (which was closed to car traffic every night of the year. The crowds on weekday night post-Mardi Gras were enormous. I couldn’t imagine Mardi Gras, truthfully). The seedy underbelly of the city (and the Quarter) is on full display at night, with strip club owners attempting to lure patrons into their establishments. It’s still early in the evening, but the alcohol has been flowing freely, and people around us are drunk, and loud.
We stop outside a club, the Open Door, to discuss our options. As we chat, on the other side of the window, the older African American man playing the piano smiles and waves for us to come in. We take this as a sign and file into the club, find a table, and enjoy the show. Afterwards, some of my friends, being better equipped socially than I will ever be, found the old man and began a conversation. He told us about a few more clubs we should visit, and said he’d be playing at a piano bar later that night, and we should meet up with him again. He promised after his set there, he would take us to a “real” jazz club. We shook hands and said our good byes, and I wondered if we would actually see the man again.
The club was at the far end of the Quarter, so we spent the next hour or so walking about off Bourbon Street. When you leave the mayhem of Bourbon Street, you really are taken to another time and place. I peek through gates and fences to see beautiful gardens and squares. People sat at on their balconies, enjoying the cool spring air.
An hour or so later, we are sitting around a piano, listening to our new friend and thoroughly enjoying ourselves. We were mostly musicians ourselves, so this moment was perfect — sitting in a quiet bar, listening to a wide array of jazz, listening to stories about the jazz scene and this man’s place in it. As his set wound done, the man asked if we were interested in going to a “real” jazz club with him. Of course, was the answer. We filed out of the club and headed away from the quarter.
At this point, the naivete of six college students was readily apparent. Promptly, we left the Quarter, crossed a rather road, and entered another neighborhood. We were clearly out of our element, but somehow, comforted by the fact that our friend seemed to know every person we passed by name. We walked further and futher away from the Quarter (and further and further away from our home away from home, the RV). Finally, the man paused outside what seemed to be an empty storefront and announced “here we are, boys.” For a moment I thought Here it is. I hope someone finds our bodies sooner rather than later. He swung open the door and with a flourish asked us to enter.
Immediately we heard the music from the band inside, and the small room was nearly filled with people of every stripe. It was loud, so conversation was difficult, but we found a section of empty wall and took in the scene. It was apparent this was the real deal, and most of the clubs in the Quarter were little more than tourist traps. I spotted the drummer from Harry Connick’s trio (this was prior to Connick becoming the next Frank Sinatra), and I’m sure if I were better versed in the New Orleans scene, I would have seen plenty of other top musicians. A few moments later, a fellow who was leaning against the wall a few feet from us stepped forward, produced a trumpet, and joined in. Amazing.
An hour or so later, three of us decided we should walk back across town and recover the RV (before someone else did), and head back to the club and pick the other half up. If we felt a bit out of place on the walk to the club, we were most certainly out of place now — three white college kids walking through a bad part of town well after midnight. We high-tailed it back to the Quarter, and soon enough we back near the art museum where our home away from home was parked. We managed to retrace our steps in the RV and find the club (did I think we looked out of place walking? Try being in an older RV).
* * *
I’m not sure what to say about the unfolding events on the Gulf Coast. Truthfully, this is sort of thing that we only hear about in other countries, or watch in the movie theater. For much of that area, vignettes like the one above are all that will remain.
Posted on 2 September 2005
More silence here. It should end sooner rather than later. Consulting work has been keeping me busy in the early mornings and late evenings, and I haven’t had much time to write, though there’s plenty to think about. I’ve promised a few folks a long-ish entry taking account of my current political leanings, but that requires more time than I’ve had. Instead, you’ll have to make do with this…
First, Matt Chester has two posts that are worth reading. He’s extended the fixed gear mindset to his general lifestyle.
We are currently experiencing what remains of hurricane Katrina, though it is merely a blip on the radar compared to what Mississippi and Louisiana have survived. A waterfall pours down the newly hung screens on our back porch, illuminated by the white light in the alley. The steady pulse of water pouring from the downspout from the roof into our backyard mixes and compliments the pitter-patter of raindrops on the cement of the sidewalk in front. The commute to and from the office today was a wet one, but, after four days away from the bike, it was pure bliss. I thought I may be able to avoid stripping down the bike this evening, but large amounts of grit in the drivetrain drove me to it. A full overhaul is likely in my future.
The boy (new pictures here and here) is talking up a storm. While he is hardly speaking perfectly (“I go this-a way going”), it’s rare when he can’t get his point across, and his ability to parrot words, and even learn their proper usage, is staggering, really.
In other news, we are officially an all-Mac household now. The hard drive on the laptop died last week (I think it had something to do with a combination of sub-standard hardware and coffee), and with class starting up again for Jen this week, we needed to do something rather quickly. A co-worker had offered to sell his older i-Book previously, but at the time we decided against it. Thankfully, he was still willing to put the machine on the market (at a nice, discounted price no less), and a few days later it was ours. After a few false steps, it now also has an Airport wireless card in it, and we’re humming along better than before (despite what you may read, USB wireless networking devices for Macs actually suck, and Netgear’s model doesn’t even have an Apple driver). The machine has been working out well for us, and I’ve been able to jump right into PHP development on it (though I’m still fighting to get su access on the CLI).
Posted on 30 August 2005
We love to eat. When asked why I ride my bike so much, I usually respond “so I can eat more,” and I’m not kidding. I’m also a big fan of the preparation of food. There is something creative, and relaxing, about preparing a meal, even for a large group. Perhaps I should have been a chef…
This past week, we had twice had the opportunity to break bread with friends, and prepare the meals together. First, two friends (who are equally enamored with the cooking process) came over to spend one final night together before they moved away. The menu was simple: vegetable enchiladas, rice, fresh salsa. The plan was that we would prepare the filling, and our friends (who are serious bakers) would bring the tortilla dough, and we would assemble the enchiladas together. I’ve not cooked much with other folks (besides Jen and the boy), but working with Katie and Joel was fun, and likely an insight into how a well-oiled kitchen works.
Katie rolled out the buckwheat tortilla dough, Joel cooked the dough on several pans he had going on the stove, and I filled the fresh tortillas with vegetables and cheese, rolled them, and added them to the casserole. Roughly twenty minutes later, I had twelve enchiladas ready for the oven. Twenty more minutes, and we were supping on delicious Mexican food. The most inspiring part of cooking with Joel and Katie (this wasn’t our first time) is their utter disregard for the cleaniness of the kitchen as they cook. As they furious rolled and cooked tortillas, flour was everywhere. Later, when Joel made dessert (fruit empenadas), again, flour and fruit covered the countertops (and the baking stone in the oven). I tend to be a little uptight about making a mess (mostly, I think, since I’ll be cleaning it up later), but it’s clearly more fun to throw caution to wind.
A few days later, we were in Beaver Falls, and I found myself in a friend’s kitchen, making (oddly) vegetable burritos. While the production wasn’t as manic (in fact, it was quite leisurely), it was what Sunday afternoons should be about — cooking and eating and talking with friends. Say what you will about the Frugal Gourmet, Jeff Smith, but this book, The Frugal Gourmet Keeps the Feast, gets it right, outlining the Biblical importance of the shared meal. And it’s not simply the meal that’s important — it’s the process as well.
Posted on 22 August 2005
To celebrate our eighth wedding anniversary last night, Jen and I had dinner at Cafe du Jour (review here) in the South Side. Excellent. The tiny storefront has a small, walled courtyard in the back, complete with trees, ivy, a pond, and a foundation. The food was fantastic, and quite inexpensive.
Folks have been inquiring about our car purchase. Yes, we got a Ford Focus. Basic specs: infrared ZX4 SES sedan. It’s a fun little car, and it’s nice to have a manual transmission again. Gas mileage has been very good (running around 30mpg in the city, 35+ on the highway), and, most importantly, Seb likes the “hot red car-car.” Oh, and the trunk is massive. We managed to stuff all of our climbing and camping gear back there without problems.
Also, I received the print edition of Comment earlier this week. Very nice. Good work, Gideon. I hope the WRF can continue to produce the print journal.
Posted on 10 August 2005
(Hat tip: Eli)
The Denver Post ran this editorial that provides a glimpse into the future and what we, as consumers, can do to change that future. The basic premise? Energy use by Americans will continue to rise, and the energy industry (as well as the environment) will struggle to keep up. The solution? Well, there are two, and they are related. The first is obvious — cut down on our reliance on energy. The second is living in community — that is, not simply living near one another, but living with one another. Neighbors come together to create community gardens to decrease the dependence on outside food sources. Neighbors who work outside the community carpool. Some may even attempt to generate work within the community to provide for their families.
Sounds like something a Birkenstock-clad liberal might envision. But read the article more closely. Then, read this, this, and, how about this (ok, this too), and tell me the vision laid out in the Post doesn’t sound pretty darn conservative. In fact, there’s little that is Liberal about people who, bound by their place, come together to form a community (certainly, they make the individual decision to stay within the community, but they are still practicing the discipline of place). Sadly, in our red/blue country, many choose to draw lines in the sand, deeming certain activities liberal and others conservative, unwilling to cross those lines. In this case, at least, the solution lies between those arbitrary lines.
By the way, thanks to this article I feel incredibly guilty right now for purchasing a new car.
Posted on 3 August 2005
Crooked Timber has an interesting discussion going on about Christian music. While most of the drivel that comes out of the Christian recording industry is beaten to a bloody pulp, I’m happy to see Pedro the Lion, Sufjan Stevens, and, most interestingly, the New Pantagruel given positive reviews.
Posted on 1 August 2005
I’m not very good at making decisions, especially when money is involved. A day in the life:
Should I walk to the store on the corner and get an iced tea? Hmmm. That’s $.99. Perhaps I shouldn’t spend the money. I could just drink some cofee. And that iced tea has all sorts of sugar and whatnot in it. I could just have hot tea here at the office. That iced tea is tasty though. And you get 23 ounces for $.99. That’s a good deal. It’s a lot of sugar though…
Now, imagine this person pondering the decision to buy a new car. Cleary not an easy task. So much to worry about — do we really need a new car? Can we afford it? Is this a rash decision? Does it get good mileage? Is it reliable?
The list goes on.
Last night Jen went to the local Ford dealer with just such a person. Ford has been running a fairly nice special during the month of July, better than the discounts I could get via their Partner Program (thanks to my employer). Now was the time to get a car, and we decided to look at the Focus, which seemed to get very good reviews from anyone and everyone. I was also comforted by the fact that the promotion meant that there was little haggling over the price of the car. The dealer had a Focus sedan, with a manual transmission, on the lot, so we actually got to test drive the car. It seemed good enough — peppy enough to be fun, but not overly sporty as to rattle poor Seb’s head over bumps. Once back at the dealer, all that was left was to locate a car that fit was we wanted (the one on the lot, whilst very inexpensive, was also rather spartan — we can do without cruise and ABS and traction control, can’t we?), which was not an easy task thanks to the promotion.
Finally, the salesman found one at a local dealer, an SES model (meaning it was kitted out with lots of bells and whistles we usually wouldn’t care about) that was priced within our budget.
Decision time.
Remember the iced tea discussion? Over $.99?
Jen tried to make things easier for me. In one corner we have the Outback, leaky headgasket included. In the other corner, we have the Focus, brandy-new, with a very good warranty included in the price. The engine may fall out of the Outback any day. The Focus is brandy-new and under warranty. After doing round after round of budgetary math in my head, I said “gimme more money for the trade and we have a deal.”
Done.
Almost.
I’m still waiting to hear if the dealer could get the car in question, since it was rather late when all was said and done. I’m mildly excited about the new car. I think I’d more excited if I drove it more often (I’m rarely in the car Monday through Friday), and I feel a slight pang of guilt that we didn’t drive the Outback into the ground (though I suspect we’re pretty close). One the plus side, the car is more fuel efficient, and it’s smaller, and I won’t feel like a bobo driving Focus. And I feel good that Jen and the boy won’t be stranded somewhere by the Outback.
Posted on 26 July 2005
When purchasing Bulletproof chain tugs, keep in mind the type of track ends your frame has, as the Sub 11.0 style ends on your Surly have hoods that do not easily accomodate the fancy star shape.
Posted on 25 July 2005