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."

Kick my ass for $1

I stepped out earlier to go to Rouses, as I exited my building I could see strobe lights flashing on my street. Lots blues and a few reds, cops are blue and EMT or NOFD are red.  Most people get the rubber neck and can't wait to look, I was tempted to back into my door without even glancing at it. Instinct as a former cab driver, if you see flashing lights go the other way. It's nothing I haven't seen before, and just as a rule of thumb, AVOID COPS. Even if you haven't done anything, it's just smarter to do so.  Let's say 5 cops are beating the shit out of some drunk and 5 more cops show up. There isn't enough ass to go around so the 5 new cops will grab whoever happens to be walking by at the time so they can have some fun too. 

It's just common sense to stay away from the action.  As I locked the gate behind me, my neighbor Richard comes skipping up to me from the middle of the mayhem like a little boy who just saw his first police car. Excitedly he told me what had happened, later Catastrophe Curt filled me in on more details.

Apparently one of our local characters was standing on the corner of Toulouse and Bourbon holding a sign that read "KICK MY ASS FOR $1" Sounds like he made a few bucks tonight.  Drunk on booze and high on bath salts he became belligerent to passer-bys trying to drum up business. Someone told him to chill the fuck out or the cops were going to give him a very bad night. At that point he started to muthafuck the cops who took that as a challenge. Now, no place on Earth do you start shit like that with law enforcement, especially in New Orleans. Seriously, after a NOPD cop in the Quarter gets done beating your ass, they let their horses have sex with you. It's been documented. 

I went on to Rouses, bought my coffee and hot dogs returning to see the ambulance pull away from in front of Molly's. As it chugged pass I glanced into the window to see a bloody and cuffed idiot on the gurney  having a very bad night. I wondered if he ever got his dollar. Life in the Quarter.

I'll be right back...

I've been busy, that's why I haven't been doing much writing. Lots of interesting things have happened, no time to tell you about them. Conversely, when I have time to write, life is boring. Seldom life is boring in the Quarter. If you need some interest in your life, just walk out your front door and there will be something waiting for you. Sometimes it's a parade coming down the center of your street, sometimes it's a chalk out line and police tape.

Some weekends you walk out and find a half million strangers shitfaced in your front yard. You remind yourself that these people pay your bills, tighten your emotional seatbelt and push through the party to run an errand.  I went to an art opening / birthday party for Peter O'Neill a week ago. Great art, cool people and good wine. You know, wine that come with corks, not in boxes like my art openings.  Before the gallery could be closed for the night there was one loose end. Some tourist passed out on the sidewalk in front.

From what I heard he had stumbled in shitfaced earlier, wondered out and got about eight feet. At closing the gallery manager and myself searched the blocks around the gallery to find a cop. None. If I had decided to piss behind a dumpster there would have been four. NOPD was called as we tried one last time to wake the guy. "Dude, you are about to have a very bad night unless you start walking." I told him. It's amazing how a flash light shining in the face a stern demand for I.D. will sober one up usually.  You couldn't get this guy's attention with an M-80.

He was tossed into an ambulance as we departed the gallery, "Geeze, it's only just after 10:00." I busted on Peter for having someone taken away in an ambulance from his show. I was jealous, the best that ever happened at one of my openings was that I was bounced out for being too drunk and trashing the place. Just once.

Monday night I came home from work of physical labor after a long weekend. I crashed and burned until about 1:00 AM,  waking up to just a half a pack of remaining smokes. I swear, I just went out for cigarettes.  On Bourbon Street I ran into "Disastrous Dave and Catastrophe Curt."  You can tell where this story is going. Remember from High School those boys that hung out behind the shop class smoking and constantly bitch slapping one another? Now fast forward 20 years and put them on Bourbon street with a good buzz going.

"Buy the ticket and take the ride..." Hunter S. Thompson once said. The secret to having a good time in the French Quarter is not going out to have a good time. The secret is to go out and try not have fun. Rowdy but well liked every place they went, I followed behind Dave and Curt as they just pushed through the crowds with loud voices and flailing arms.  Like two middle aged versions of Steve - O, bar stools were over turned, drinks spilled and at least one almost fist fight with a street hustler. I would have been there just to watch for cops.

I spoke to Curt about the meaning of New Orleans. Locals can spend hours discussing the spiritual meaning behind living here. Trying to define the undefinable, describing the unseen.  Curt struck upon  the  notion that there has to be some sort of magnetic anomaly here. We developed the "New Orleans, the G-Spot of the Earth theory." More research is still needed.

From Molly's to Erin Rose and back to Molly's. The best was in the back bar of Erin Rose where Jacob was working. After the second time he had to speak to the muppets for rough housing Jacob barked "Why don't you two just fuck and get it over with." PBR came out of my nose. 

As the sun rose over the west bank I stumbled across Toulouse to unlock my gate. "Shit, I forgot to buy smokes."

Big Weekend

I'm goin' down to New Orleans to see about a friend of mine

Down in New Orleans good peoples they's hard to find

I bet he's making gumbo and drinkin' homemade wine

A jukebox shakin' and breakin' down in New Orleans

 I'll be the highest hillbilly that Bourbon Street has ever seen

 Kid Rock

Although there's not much planned for this weekend in the French Quarter, I'm looking forward to it. The rest of the month we have French Quarter Fest (April 12th to 15th)  and Jazzfest (April 27th to May 08th.) Any local will tell you if you have company coming in to visit the Quarter, do it on a weekend when theres not an idiot convention in town. Last week was miserable with Kentucky fans.

I know its how we make our money in the French Quarter. Doctors make their money from sick people, it doesn't mean that they enjoy being around them all day. Dealing with people with contagious diseases, incoherent, comatose, bleeding, vomiting and lying in their own bodily waste, doctors and Quarter Rats call these people customers.

Except for a SLUTWALK and a few other smaller events, this should be a quiet weekend. Fortunately this is the weekend that my big brother from Las Vegas will be in town for a few days. My brother is about 11 years older than me so we never really spent a lot of time together growing up. When he was 17 he joined the U.S.A.F. for twenty years and settled in Vegas for retirement.  I was trying to remember today if he and I have ever sat a bar together, I really never remember drinking with him.  We have about 30 years of catching to do, I think the Quarter is the perfect place to start.

I'm really looking forward to showing off the French Quarter like she was my hot new girlfriend. Compiling lists of where to take him for food, booze and history.  Where do you start? Of course Bourbon Street the first night, I'm thinking Frenchman Street on Saturday then he might be ready for Lower D on Sunday.  Molly's, WW2 museum, Molly's, Clover Grill, Molly's, ferry to Old Algiers for a couple beers and a couple hundred other "must do's."

I mention the impending visit to a property manager that I was doing some work for today "How do you show someone who lives in Vegas a good time?" I asked. Sam, a many generation local who is very bright and well traveled replied. "Vegas is what it is, what makes New Orleans different from every place else is the history and the people." I'll try to make it a point not just to show my visitor the hundreds of landmarks, but introduce him to as many of my local friends as I can.  That is for me the best part of the French Quarter, the people. Keep an eye open for us, even though he kind of looks like a cop, he's cool, he's with a Quarter Rat.

And if you're payin' for fun a french quarters really all you need

K.R

Throw me some asprin mister!

Well, it's over.  I got to experience Mardi Gras at ground zero. I worked as a doorman at Molly's, tossed beads from a balcony, drank a little too much and got a lap dance from a 70 year old woman.  I really didn't take in any parades to speak of, a little too chilly out for me. Besides it's a crowd thing that I can't cope with.

Fats Domino - Mardi Gras To New Orleans

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Most of my friends in the Quarter had to work through out the past week. Otis would finish his graveyard shift at 6 am and take his 2 year old daughter out to parades during the day.  Most of the Quarter Rats I spoke to said that this was one of the slowest carnival seasons that they could remember. All said they made much better money on New Years Eve.

Things were so slow this year, when you threw beads, women only flashed one boob.

The streets were still packed with revelers in costumes.  I wandered down Royal Street for my daily exercise. Ok, for smokes and energy drinks. I loved the costumes. This city always has a surreal atmosphere, but during this season costumes seem the norm. Simple errands become adventures. 

This guy in the Dallas cheerleader costume I saw all weekend long when I worked at Molly's. He always made me chuckle, more than the midget in a Superman costume being pushed around in a shopping cart.  When this guy walked by the balcony on Fat Tuesday I had to ask him to stop for a photo.

In another two months the FEMA float will be here.

What? Do you mean that you don't pass couples like this on the way to the supermarket in your town? I guess living here takes some of the magic out of it for me. When I first got down here I had roomamtes who spoke of this as some sort of religious / magical event. Perhaps they over sold it, To be honest, I think it's over rated and the city places too much of it's identity in the event.  I understand it's business, the tourist buck pumping up our economy before the slump of summer.

The real magic of the French Quarter is here year round. There is so much that this city can boast about besides being a Mecca for the annual pilgrimage of alcoholics.  Mardi Gras does bring this city closer together. When Ash Wednesday finally gets here, front end loaders are used to scoop up tons upon tons of garbage, fire trucks are used to hose the vomit from the streets and sidewalks. Everyone sighs collectively.

Guess what I did last night...

I worked. My editor Otis asked if I would be interested working as the door guy at Molly's on Toulouse for a couple of nights during Mardi Gras.  Having no social life to speak of (by choice) I said sure if for no other reason than the chance to say I had done it.  The only vocational experience I had to draw from was driving cab at night on the Jersey Shore, this was a lot easier and safer.  Safer because I had other staff and all of the local regulars to cover me if any shit went down. Driving cab alone with one or more belligerent drunks sitting behind you can hang your ass out to dry. 

Fortunately both nights were pretty mellow, no trouble to speak of. I had made my mind up that any if any shit went down that I would dive in. I'm not sure how much help a 170 pounds of arthritis would be in a bar fight, but we are Quarter Rats. We look after our own. Being so skinny, I can't really stop a bullet but I might  be able to slow it down.

Molly's was one of the first bars I ever went to in the French Quarter and I even ended up living across the street from it when I finally settled in the Quarter. A cool local haunt with plenty of characters that is a stones throw from Bourbon Street. Knowing a few of the bartenders made it easier on the new job and a few of the regulars came over with their drinks to keep me company and give me some pointers.  I stood in the doorway from 10 PM to 3 AM watching the mass of madness swirl past down on Bourbon. Small groups would splinter off heading towards me on Toulouse.  I immediately tried to figure if they should show I.D. or not, if they were just looking for a bathroom or were too drunk to be allowed in.

Protecting our bathroom was my primary duty. Across the street next to the Tropical Island the city set up a couple of port o johns. At one point I looked over and some guy was standing next to one, pissing on the outside of it.  All night long women in their late teens were coming up to me with thighs clenched and bodies jiggling. 

"You gots a bafroom?"

"Must be twenty one, one drink minimum." 

"Just to use your bafroom?"

"Yes, customers only. Look , there's port o johns across the street." 

"I don't wanna use dem, there's a line and deys nasty." 

"So you you want us to open up our restrooms to the non paying public so ours become as equally congested and unsanitary?" 

"Uh, yea..."

"Must be twenty one, one drink minimum."

"Yo a asshole."

"That's what my ex says too, have a goodnight."

I met a lot of cool folks, some where Molly regulars, others were visitors from around the country. Two very young attractive ladies wearing bustiers, boots and fishnets walked up to the door. I asked for ID's, and by their reactions I could tell they were regulars who worked as shotgirls on Bourbon. They were polite realizing that I was new and just doing my job. The one dumped out her boot containing her cell phone, rolling papers and driver's license.  They sat by the door and we chatted about the craziness. The two shotgirls would come into Molly's every couple of hours to escape the insanity of the front line. Upon their last exit, one turns and hands me a few singles. "Wait, young, attractive women in fishnets are handing ME singles? I like this job."

 

The five and six hours shifts flew by as I stood on the stoop watching the real Mardi Gras parade pass by.  Ridiculous hats, costumes and tourists with so many strings of beads around their necks that it just added to the power of gravity trying to pull them down to the vomit slick payment. A constant stream of young slutty dressed women flowed in and out of the Dungeon next door, "Oh, that's where they come from."

Before my shift I went up Royal to Unique Groceries for three $.99 Rip It energy drinks and a pack of smokes for my shift. My first night at Mollys I worked my whole shift just having just energy drinks.  A few drinks were offered during the night, but I declined. As much as I feel at home in this city, as much as I feel like I belong in the French Quarter, the one way  that I feel like an outsider is that I don't enjoy drinking.  It's kind of like joining the Navy when you don't enjoy the water.

My second night I was a bit more relaxed so I said yes to everything offered. Two Spanish dudes from Texas bought me a shot of Tequila because they thought I was "Cool as hell." I always had a good rapport with drunk Mexicans when I drove cab.  I'll take three drunk Mexicans over one drunk Italian any day.  Drunk Australians are hit or miss as tourists. I had a couple bad experiences with them while driving cab. I met one last night that improved their grade curve.

While driving cab, I always had to be on the look out for drunkards trying to sneak drinks into my cab. Weekends in the summer that was a constant aggravation. Arguments like: "I won't spill it" "I can drink in a limo" "It's only water" "You need to lighten up" "No tip for you asshole" Last night gave me flashbacks. I was amazed how many people thought that they could bring full drinks into a crowded bar.  Try to bring a plate of food into a restaurant and reply when stopped, "Oh we're going to buy dessert here." And those GODDAMN Green Handgrenades drinks. Walking up to a doorman while holding one of those is like wearing a T-Shirt that says "I'm a fucking idiot."

The view out my office window, a costumed midget in a shopping cart.

Twice the bartenders came over and reminded me to keep an eye open on people bringing drinks in. I couldn't understand how they got past me. I made it a point to look at the hands of everyone coming in. It's tough to give a once over look to revelers wearing sequin alligator hats and with so many beads that it looks like they're wearing a gay life preserver. Strands of beads  dangling with throw cups, coconuts, dildoes and blinking lights on them. I ain't no TSA agent. Then I figure how the sneaky bastards were doing it. A group would come up, I'd be checking ages in the doorway as the ones outside were handing the drinks to the ones inside through the open window. You muthafuckas.

I saw them coming up Toulouse. A snotty, whorish dressed rich girl texting on a smarter than her phone. Her frat boy companion who you could tell the only thought bouncing around in his alcohol soaked brain was "YES! I'm going to get laid tonight!" Both had three quarter full cups of beer. She looked like she down the rest of hers in one gulp. This girl made Snookie look like Mary Tyler Moore. They came up to Mollys and looked in, and both knew that it was probably the least crowded and most reasonably priced place this close to Bourbon Street. As I check the ID's I mention that they can't bring in outside drinks.

She snaps in that spoiled bitch tone. "WHAT? Are you for real?"

"No. I am a hologram telling you that you can't bring in outside drinks."

"You're an ASSHOLE."

They hang out front sipping their beers, she is texting on her phone as he's rubbing her lower back staring at her 22 year old boobs.  They spin around and slam thier half full cups of beer into the large garbage can outside of our door splattering me with slop from the can. I imeadiatly step to my left blocking the very narrow doorway.

"Sorry, you can't come in."

Her expression was like I just kicked her in the twat.

"WHAT?! We got rid of our drinks like you asked!"

"You called me an asshole. I don't have to let in anyone who calls a staff member an asshole." 

Her boyfriend rolled his eyes realizing they just tossed $6 in beer and I am putting her in such a lousy mood he probably won't be getting any from her all night. He had to restrain her from slugging me.

"OH! You're a FUCKING ASSHOLE!"

"Yep, that's what my ex says too. Goodnight."

Hey God....

Hey God, if I haven't thanked you in a while, let me touch base with you. For the past couple of days I have woken up in a warm bed. I've walked to a job that I actually can tolerate and most of the time enjoy. Spent the day working with people I like and enjoy being around while listening to people that you blessed with the gift of music. I return home to warmth and fill my stomach. For the past two nights I have spent my time with brilliant creative company at my elbow. Folks that I consider myself fortunate to call friends.  

Tomorrow, I hope to rise to the challenges that you set before me, I doubt you will give me anymore than I can handle. Look after those I love. Help me to treat others as I would want to be treated. Thanks, you've been good to me.

Home Video

Eric, would you post some random pics of your block someday? Every block is cool, and I'd love to see yours.

Ok, Brooks, here is my little corner of the world...

I guess I'm just gettin old....

Today was pay day, two weeks worth. I went right over to pay pay my rent and set aside some for the rest of my immediate bills. Tonight I looked at the rest of my cash with eager anticipation of my big plans for the night, grocery shopping.  I have been planning my trip to Rouses for a week. My front door is fifty feet from Bourbon Street, years ago that would have been the direction to go on pay day. In 2011 it has no appeal to me except for the occasional walk for amusement.

I read  posts from Facebook friends 30 years younger than me of their plans for every night of the week. "Going here, meeting so and so, drinking this or that." God bless you, be careful, and get it out of your system now. I'm sure if they saw my life, I would seem like a boring old fart. I am and proud of it. People my age behaving like twenty somethings are sad and pathetic. I have been living in the French Quarter for a little more than four months, might have gotten drunk  less than a half a dozen times. Can't do it any more. You'll see, I hope.

I chuckled at myself getting ready to go make groceries. Showered, groomed and actually put thought into what to wear. You would have thought that I had a date with Trixi Minx or something. Every purchase was thought out for maximum nutrition for my dollar, no splurges, no treats. This time last year I was so broke that I came down with the scurvy. I know, who gets the scurvy in the 21st century anymore? I had been getting food stamps but 3/4 of my Louisiana Purchase Card each month went towards paying my rent. Fifty dollars a month left for hot dogs and potatoes.

After a diet like that for three months I noticed all I wanted to do was stay in bed, and when I tried to get up every joint in my body ached, my teeth wiggled and I saw a zombie with blotches in the mirror. So tonight going grocery shopping was like a night on the town. No snacks or frozen pizzas, straight to the produce section. Yea, on pay day I lust for cauliflower.  Someone recently said that I should reapply for food stamps, I responded "If I have the money for coffee and cigarettes every day then I can afford to buy my own food. Governor Jindal doesn't owe me a damn thing." In fact, I feel I owe the state and look forward to paying it back someday.

I toyed with the idea of crossing the street to join my friend Otis for a beer at Molly's. I have a full belly, a full day of work behind me, and another full day ahead of me tomorrow so I'll just go to bed. You young kids, go to Bourbon Street and have fun. Spend so much of your money now that someday you'll look back on it and cringe.  If in thirty years you're still doing it, stop and reconsider. You might be surprised at the joy of a simple night out grocery shopping.

God bless you, be careful.

GOT THE KEYS

Tonight my editor Otis B. Easy came through like a true hero. OTIS! MY MAN! He borrowed, met up with me at Molly’s with the last $30 bucks I needed to get the keys to my new place across the street on Toulouse. Up until now, I have been “staying at a friend’s place.” It sucked not having my own space. I am an artist, my space becomes my art, I need it to really create. Although, the challenges of not having a traditional studio space has made me a better artist. I have drawn many of the Quarter Rat cartoons while sitting on a bench in Jackson Square, not for inspiration, but because of necessity. Now with private space, I should really kick ass.


  Otis met up with me at Molly’s coming up with the needed amount to get the keys from Richard at the Internet Cafe. Met a new bartender who just started at Molly’s. She’s cute as hell and a sweetheart. I hurriedly returned to show him the keys and said “Want to see the new Quarter Rat office?” My first twenty minutes in my new abode was an editorial meeting about October’s issue. The meeting was interrupted my me miserably trying to beat a roach to death with a step stool. His beating death took longer than the discussion of content.  Otis laughed as Christopher Lloyd tried to kill the John McLain of cockroaches. “Do you always scream like a girl?” he asked.

After I fumbled trying to figure out what keys went where, we walked down my driveway formally known as Bourbon Street towards Canal. Wow, this is my new home. I have been living down here on and off for months. Now I receive nods from bouncers and doormen like they are my neighbors, because they are. What are all of these damn tourists doing here in my front yard?

My brother was so proud of his back deck in suburban New Jersey. Plastic Tiki Bar and hot tub. He was quick to brag how much he spent on it all. Then he complained about he never gets to enjoy it because of all of the yard work and maintenance to the new additions. A monthly mortgage that is more than my W-2 for last year. Well, my back deck has a hundred or so bars, any given night at least 12 different types of live bands, dozens of naked hot women, 24 hour Karaoke and a mechanical bull. Seven hundred a month, utilities included.



Walking back from the drug store on Canal with a new pack of smokes I stopped to watch a black guy with dreadlocks singing “I got friends in low places.”  Smirking about what a great welcome home song it was, I remembered that I now reside only a few blocks from fellow Quarter Rats Brad Pitt and Angeline Jolie, I’ll have to invite them over for a few bong hits.

'Cause I got friends in low places,
Where the Whiskey drowns,
And the Beer chases my blues away,
But I'll be okay,
Now I'm not big on social graces,
Think I'll slip on down to the oasis,
Oh I got friends,
In low places.


(That reminds me, Nic you can crash on my couch if you can’t find your way home.)