Lucky for you that I ain't your father...

Early this morning Uptown in New Orleans on Broadway an intoxicated 19 year old sideswiped three parked cars at about 5:00 AM. Most likely this never would have made the news except it was Mayor Mitch Landrieu's son Benjamin Landrieu. For those of you outside of the Big Easy the Landrieu's name is big down here in politics. The Mayor was called to the scene and acording to him, he watched from a distance as his son was cuffed and arrested. Mitch told the cops on the scene not to give the son any preferencial treatment. Well handled.

Some today argued that the boy was rushed through the booking because he was released with in three hours or so. If that was the case, fine, at least he was booked. I would be willing to bet in most small towns across America, the mayor's son would have been driven home by the cop and the matter of damaged vehicles would have been taken care of after the fact somehow. As a father of a teenager, I can imagine the mix of emotions that Landrieu went through, as a father, concerned for his son's poor decisions and  as a public figure in a town known to be ruthless to it's leaders. My heart went out to Mitch, but at least the boy didn't pull a Kennedy and leave some helpless girl drowning in an overturned car along the Mississippi. 

I was on the family's side until I saw his mug shot snapped down at O.P.P. "Benjamin, do you think this is funny boy? Think this is cute? You damaged three cars, belonging to three people who awoke this morning to a very bad day because of you. They might have missed work because you are an asshole. If you were my kid I would be bitch slapping that shit eating grin off of your face in the cop shop parking lot. Your expression says it all, you'll get out of this and you can't wait to brag to your buddies what you did." Your expression tells me that you have no idea that you committed a criminal act, could have killed someone and that you caused your father (who probably bought the car you wrecked) a lot of political embarrassment. You spoiled snot nosed punk.

According to reports the little shithead was charged with Driving While Intoxicated, Reckless Operation of a Vehicle, and Driving on Roadway Laned for Traffic (essentially, an improper lane change), no where have I read about a charge of under aged drinking. Usually cops throw everything they can at you and let the prosecutor and defense lawyers haggle down to one or two charges. This is New Orleans, the home of drive through Daiquiri shops, but still he is only 19 years old. Here is the kicker, Mayor Landrieu had already scheduled a press conference  for this morning about "nuisance bars" that allowed underage drinking.  Why do I have a gut feeling that this isn't the first time that little Benjamin has come home drunk.

It gets better. Of course there were news cameras waiting for him when he was released from holding. Evidently his old man's political career means nothing to the boy. Instead of showing a little humility and maturity Benjamin tells the press to "Get the fuck out of my way" and then proceeds to flip the reporters the finger after he gets into the back of an Suburban. HEY ASSHOLE! These are the same people that can make or break your father's next election. You are not a cool rock star, you are the spoiled brat of a politician who's credibility has just dropped a few points in the past few hours because of you, so what is your response? To be an even bigger douchebag.

I don't bother to write about local politics, nothing differant here than any other town. The Mayor is already dealing with waking up in the morning to hear about four people being murdered the night before and having to try and seem like he is doing something about it. I'm not writing about this to make a point about policy, just that Mitch's biggest headache right now is his arrogant spoiled brat.

A little flesh, a little history

One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble
Not much between despair and ecstasy

This town will either raise you up, or eat you up. No middle ground in the Quarter. You meet people going in one of two directions, up or down. You're predator or prey depending on what street you walk. Ten or twenty years ago I never would have stood a chance here. Some days I still am not sure how my day will end. Driving cab at night for five years on the Jersey Shore was a learning experience. That was just prep school for life in the French Quarter. 

 
Every night I walk Royal to Canal and Bourbon Street. After a year of living down here things do look different. Gone are the wide eyes of tourist awe, now covered with dark shades of suspicion for everyone. There aren't any more hustlers than when I first walked down Bourbon,  I can just spot them from two blocks away now. Fewer attractive women, just a lot more hookers. Fewer homeless, just a lot more crackheads. There can be naked 18 year old girls hanging off of balconies and I'm watching the rats dart by with pizza crusts. Tourists snap pictures of the blinding neon signs while they step in horse crap from NOPD's mounted.  Am I the only one who sees the hot dog vendor with his finger pushed up his nose to the third knuckle? I guess that couple from Minnesota placing an order with him missed it.

I watch people fall victim to the street scammers on all sides. There's nothing I can do for them, it's too late. Just keep walking. Shoe shine hustlers squirting polish on their shoes and wiping them down before the tourist understands what's going on. You shouldn't have stopped, now it will cost you five bucks to have a crackhead smear your new loafers with jism. A night manager at a fast food joint hurls a belligerent drunk out the front door and almost into you. The derelict spins to the foul sidewalk cracking his head hard do to the lack of motor skills. The manager returns inside, a naive tourist couple stop in shock and kneel to help the fallen. Bad move. With in 5 minutes the man on the sidewalk has scammed them out of $30 for more crack. 

Acting like a tough guy on these streets will get you killed faster than a tour of duty in Iraq. Too many times I have read news stories of some hyper masculine man's man trying to save face in front of people that he will never see again, only to end up dead. Trying to start shit with me? Did you just comment about kicking my muthafuckin white ass? I keep walking, you wanted me to stop so you could start shit, I didn't stop. I win. If you follow me, then I do the crazy ass muthafucka routine on you. Especially now days, I might be a bath salt Zombie who will eat your fuckin face off.

I return to Toulouse Street with my energy drinks and a fresh pack of menthols. The ride ain't over until I lock the front door behind me. Between Bourbon and my door there is still a gauntlet of penniless winos and crackheads sitting on the stoops eyeballing potential prey. "Hey man, ya got an extra smoke?" "Sorry dude, all out."

One night in Bangkok and the tough guys tumble
Can't be too careful with your company
I can feel the Devil walking next to me

yea? what?

HEY YOU blog reading muthafuckas, how da hell are ya? Sorry I've been drinking. Evidently when in the French Quarter sickening quantities of alcohol makes you a better writer, or so the history books make it seem. Money has been tight but tonight I splurged on a four loko and got a decent buzz. Now you are reading the effects of it. Tonight started out as my usual evening stroll with a sales call thrown in because I need the money.  I haven't sold a fucking one, but had fun not doing it. I headed over to Mr Binky's on Chartres to see if they wanted to place an ad this month. Mr Binky's is a really cool adult shop with fuckin cool staff. I touched base with Vanish the clerk and he said to come back during 9 to 5 and speak with a manager. If I am awake between 9 and 5 I will go back. 

I walked past the strip cub / brothel a few doors down where about two months ago I had an encounter. A scantily clad female (?) tried to entice me with "Hey honey, want to party?" "No thanks" I replied "I have somewhere to go..." "You ain't got nowhere to go, you ain't got no money anyways mutha fucka..." Fuck you skank. Tonight I walked past the same fine establishment when I was asked the very same question. "No thanks, I prefer my women without a penis..." Three steps later a cup filled with ice hit me between the shoulder blades.

I swung by and chatted with Catastrophe Curt and Blind Troy the street bluesman. Curt watches over Blind Troy on one of the toughest corners in the Quarter. About a month ago a couple of thugs tried to rob Troy and Curt took out after them. He grabbed one around the corner of Bourbon and Iberville. Curt chased them down when he caught up with one the punk turned around and stabbed Curt in the side. A dozen  or so staples in the side later, we are all joking about it.  This is the Quarter, your final mark may be a chalk outline.

I bullshitted with a Lucky Dog guy, a couple of doormen only to find my way back home. I don't want to live anyplace else.

all the news that fits, we print

I've been in a funk the last few weeks. House painting work is hit or miss lately. I'll start a project, historic society facists bring the job to a halt. Line up something else and have to wait on materials. Lots of work to do for the magazine this month, but as always Otis and I will wait until 48 hours before we go to print before we ask ourselves "What the fuck are we going to do this month?" We are dysfunctional rats who can't really meet our full potential unless it's a crisis.  Panic, fear and eviction notices get the creative juices flowing. 

I shuffled across Toulouse to Molly's for the editorial meeting with Otis. Pondering such journalistic ponders as "Is it too soon for dead stripper stories?' or 'Who is the next convention in town that we can mock and ridicule?" Like Time magazine editors didn't go out drinking for an editorial meeting one day to a strip club and decide to have a hot milf getting her tit sucked on by an eight year old boy on the next cover. I bet they laughed their asses off and someone said "I dare you." I know we are only the Quarter Rat, Time magazine probably have twice as many readers than us. But our readers re-read every page at least three times. I've had readers start to quote their favorite story from the Quarter Rat to me. Once I interupted asking "What the fuck are you talking about? What? Oh yea I guess I did write that. I hope you didn't actually try it, I made it up."

Towards the close of the meeting we looked outside to see a local getting arrested again in the same spot he got arrested last month. For the same thing. Perhaps you know him, "Mr Kick-my-ass-for-$1" I mean, what exactly is your business model? Last month during your grand opening, you made one dollar and went to jail. 30 days later you get out, make a new sign and hope to make a new start? You had a fucking month to come up with a better hustle. He did revise his sign from last month. Instead of "KICK MY ASS $1" It read "Kick ME IN my ass $1"  That little type-o might have been the source of the problem last time. I mean that's a great deal, but one kick in the ass for a dollar is much more reasonable. I guess since he doesn't have a vendors license is why the cops hassle him. If he got away with it, soon the crackheads would be out there by the dozens holding hand scrawled signs that say "Fuck me in my ass $10"  I don't much like cops, but every now and then you don't mind seeing them crack the head of a stupid person. "Muthafuck me $1" you might get away with.

We didn't see any cops bust his head tonight, in all likelihood they waited until they got him down to booking.  Too many cameras that close to Bourbon Street. Although I think a few on Toulouse would have cheered. but there is always the one person with a camera phone who has to try and save the world from fascism. If Christ were crucified today he would be a YOUTUBE sensation. Pilot would be holding press conferences promising transparency and a thorough investigation. A few low level Roman soldiers would be tossed to the lions, and there would be a TV mini series, the end. 

We looked across the street to see mounted NOPD riding up one at a time, like the four horseman of the Apocalypse but in no particular hurry. Behold, I see the pale horse radio it in.  Soon our misadventure capitalist is in cuffs. Probably the same pair clicked on last month. It sucks being busted, I feel for anyone standing in front of blue strobes and the world rubbernecks at you expense. There is a reason it takes so long for a cop to run your I.D. or write you out a ticket. They want to make an example of you. Remind the fifty cars that drove by gawking over the past twenty minutes who is in charge.  I'm sure it's a union thing too.

You get a sick to your gut feeling as your arms are cuffed behind you and a gloved hand is pushing you by the top of your skull into a backseat.  That's the time you quickly realize that you had better get your shit together fast. If you don't, your night will defiantly go from bad to worse. Booking is always a buzz kill. The perp walk in the French Quarter is more like a second line parade minus the band. What did you think? The cops put him on the back of a horse? No. Handcuffed he was led down Toulouse, a right on Royal Street walking between four mounted cops.  Tourists quickly tried to catch it on cell phones. Poor guy was stepping in horse shit the entire three blocks to the 8th.  

After the amusement turned the corner, myself and another patron returned inside. Otis asked if 'kickmyass guy' got busted, I said yea. As I finished my PBR again Otis asked "What have we got to write about?" I shrugged "Dunno, nothing really stands out anymore."

Karma Inside Out

Every now and then I'll check up on the status of a film that I worked background in. I have yet to see one in the theater, or even rent one. I'll just wait long enough and it will find it's way on line. This one I think went directly to DVD, and YouTUBE. "Killing Karma" was one of the first ones that I worked on when I started to find work as a background actor. It was released as "Inside Out." I didn't even know who Paul "Triple H" Levesque was. Never heard of him, never saw him wrestle. The first time I crossed paths with him on the set was at the "Honey Pot" that's the name for the small trailer with the bathrooms that they have on set. I walked up the small set of steps, tried the door it was occupied. As I stepped back to wait my turn the door opened and Tripple H was exiting.  I don't think I was successful with muting my "Holy Shit!" looking up as this massive human stood on the steps in front of me after squeezing out of the tiny trailer door.

The station wagon is still my favorite star of this film. I stumbled upon this YOUTUBE version of the entire film. It has some sort of Arabic subtitles. I was surprised that it held my attention past my scene and I enjoyed it. Great to see Bruce Dern can still play a bad ass even at his age. "My scene" is about 0:57 minutes into it. Look for a balding guy in shades sitting outside a bar sipping a beer. to the far right of the screen. The director didn't have to tell us to act with the explosion, we just had to re-act. There were no flames or fireballs when we shot it. The fire was added later with CGI. However, the building was set up by the special effects team with huge compressed air cannons filled with large pieces of balsa wood, cork and cardboard. The break away "Sugar Glass" windows and balsa wood frames disintegrated at the moment the air cannons were triggered.  A large noisy explosion of air and fluff debris shot across the street. It was easy to re-act to it. 

 Bad Carma

neighbors

(old pic I stole off of line)

I often gripe about my block and a half walk to work at the Pontalba Apartments.  Damn tourists stopping in front of me on the sidewalk, homeless guys bumming smokes, the brass band in front of the Cabildo playing "Bourbon Street Parade" ten times a day.  I had a new gig today a little closer to home, two doors down on Toulouse. My neighbor Jeff is the general contractor finishing up the extensive renovations over at the "Hotel Maison de Ville" a couple of doors towards Bourbon, across from Mollys.

I've started to become the history buff since I moved to the Quarter. It's tough not to take some interest when every street, every block and most every building has some interesting story behind it. I did a little online research of my new job site. The Maison De Ville is cool as hell.  Evidently it has always been "the" place to stay. I found some credible on line sources that filled me in on my neighbor's house. We were doing a little sheet rock in this small cozy room that opens up to this mint courtyard. As it should be since as a neighbor I had to listen to jack hammers and deal with truck for months. Some Spackle, some paint and sweat, that room will be sharp. That night on line I read that that was the room that Tennessee Williams finished "Streetcar named Desire." Room 9. I was like, get the fuck out....

It's true, Google it if you don't believe me.

I then stumbled across a list of celebs that stayed there over the years. "Elizabeth Taylor, Dan Aykroyd, Robert Redford, Michael Jackson, Julia Roberts and many others." Today at work I'm looking around the place thinking "No way, Danny "Fuckin Ellwood" stayed here, cool." This place rocks. I turned around to see my friend Peter O'Neill's painting on the wall. I could only point and chuckle, perfect.

I've wanted to do more history and interesting facts about buildings here in the Quarter, but where to start? I'll just explore my block for now. See what dirt I can uncover on Toulouse.

Fuckin ELLWOOD!

barge rats

Usually when I correspond with someone up North, I always ask "How's the weather up there?" just so I can rub it in. It's the asshole in me.  I found myself asking an Alaskan Quarter Rat fan "How's the radiation up there?" That's the friend in me when someone I know may be hit with isotopes. Dumb Japs. If anyone should be the most careful it's them. Perhaps if you put as much effort into nuclear safety as you do bad animation and pervy porn, you wouldn't be living in a microwave oven right now. At lest Russians had someplace to move the population to. You guys are shit out of luck.

The Alaskan Barge Trash are good friends with the Quarter Rat, we are honored. A tug boat crew working Valdez Harbor spend the long sadistic winters passing around DVDs of Treme, listening to WWOZ on the internet and reading The Quarter Rat. Next year they want Fat Tuesday off. My friend Jeff said it's the only Mardi Gras themed tug working up there. See? They get it. 

I tried to figure out the connection between a tug crew working in Valdez with those working in the French Quarter,  I can't figure it out. Other than  those up on Valdez have as much respect for big oil companies as we do. Think about it. These guys live fairly exciting lives on some of the roughest waters in the world and they spend their down time listening to our music and reading the adventures of bartenders and strippers on Bourbon Street.

Thanks guys, we'll send ya some beads for those railings.