It’s not everyday you are allowed to be a lovable vagrant. But thanks to the kindness and endless patience of some wondrous friends, I am allowed now to exist in the subtle and sweet sun drenched recesses of New Orleans, Louisiana for the next two weeks. I will devote my life to singing praises to this town. I have in previous blogs ( READ IT NOW ), and in other forms of art and such, knelt down to inhale its oddly jasmine scent, unconcerned by my strange behavior in public.
And for one reason and one reason only: No one gives a fuck. They don’t. The people of New Orleans care a great deal about a great deal of things, but hell, odd behavior is just another feather in the hat. Preventing sad unnecessary violence, yes they care about that. Having a fine meal and drinking all too much with friends, check. Pissed about Drew Brees not pulling out a passing game in the first three quarters against Seattle? Yes, add all that on the list. The new sound ordinances up for legislature trying to cripple the music scene in the Quarter (yeah, I got wind of it!):
Definitely a bad idea.
But in reference to the bartending topic of the week, I’ll have to go with “Not Bartending”. After working this particular profession for over 10 years, it's odd that in any given moment I’m not asking someone how they are, pushing a Vodka Tonic across the bar, or cleaning up some indescribable nasty off the lip of a toilet. No one is asking me for drinks, my opinion, my advice, nor am I handling money at any given time (going back to my theory that bartenders/service industry/preschool teachers are probably the healthiest humans because of the insurmountable amount of bacteria we come across on a daily basis).
Not that I would trade it for the world. Even if someone handed me a million dollars right now I would still need to bartend one shift somewhere in the world and work. It’s kind of like how Bill Murray randomly shows up to bartend in Bushwick, Brooklyn, forcing everyone to only drink Tequila shots no matter what they order.
I have got to be near people. I love it. I do love listening to people troubles, being a part of the celebrations, and simply existing around life in the dive bar universe. There’s an honesty I don’t think I could ever find in the sober, square world. That’s just me.
That’s why the Gods bestowed upon me to be able to stay down here in New Orleans, Louisiana with some lovely friends. Friends who happen to be teetotaling at the moment.
What drunk would be happier, upon walking into a lovely home, seeing a couple bottles of untouched Ketel One and Hornitos, hearing:
“Have at it, Matthew. We chilling these days. All yours.”
Some days I play part psychologist. Some days I play part businessman. Some days part doorman.
Today, friends, I’m playing the part of the lovable homeless vagrant working on a novel in a house full of booze and teetotalers (in the nicest sense) in the city of New Orleans.
Porch Life! 4LYFE!
PS: Speaking of bad decisions, I did eat a penny the other day. Not on a dare, no, nothing like that. I’m not going to go into why, but I can say it was for a damn good reason. I suppose everyone can say the mistakes they make is for a damn good reason. But I’m not going to tell any of you why, not until a couple blogs from now. But I will tell you this. Money makes you sick. Bad.
THE BARS NEVER CLOSE…
THE WRITING NEVER ENDS...