the first time someone f*cked with 1/4 Rats

I have found myself taking an interest in American history since I have moved down to New Orleans. I never really had much before, perhaps because the history books made it seem dull and distant.  Walking the streets of the French Quarter everyday, history is never distant. In fact it trips your feet on a daily basis. In the Quarter very little has changed, not just the grand old structures but the souls who still dwell here. When I was working as a painter at the Pontalba Building I could literally turn around and see the statue of General Andrew Jackson tipping his hat to me. I found myself going on line to learn more about this stern looking man who was watching me work all day.

The War of 1812 was just some bit of history that seemed irrelevant and detached from anything that I knew.  After studying up on it a bit, I now realize that I am standing in the middle of one of the prominent places in American history, which eventually changed the course of world history in the long run. Even 200 years later, as much as our nation has changed, (perhaps not for the better) things in the French Quarter might not be that different.  At least the people haven't changed much, let me explain.

The War of 1812  was never certain for America, the British were a super power of the world at that time. They were the best trained, most disciplined, best equipped, best funded and most victorious military in the the world of their day. They had just kicked Napoleon's ass, they ruled most of the world at that time and were fierce about keeping it that way. Like the proverbial bully, they had been abusing and humiliating the young United States by going after our shipping and forced inscription of our merchant sailors. Once we had declared war on them, the British made it a point to try and put the young upstart nation it's it's place. We got our asses kicked from Canada on down the East coast.

Washington D.C. had been invaded by the Limies who burned the city to the ground after all of the pussy politicians fled. Some might say our first victory was at Fort McHenry in Baltimore. That was not so much a decisive victory as a stalemate. Really the only thing that came out of that battle is a national anthem that very few people can sing very well. If we had waited, the national anthem might have been written down here in New Orleans. Not only would it have probably have been a much better song, but we could have been able to dance to it.

The British knew the war was drawing to a close and desperately wanted to control New Orleans by war's end. That would have meant that they controlled the Mississippi River and about forty percent of America's commerce. Wars are always about money. Enter Andrew Jackson, orphaned as a child when his family were killed by the British, he had a grudge to settle. Jackson was a bad ass muthafucka, always looking for a fight and quick to start a duel with anyone who looked at him the wrong way. If there ever was a Dirty Harry in U.S. history, it was Jackson. 

As bad ass as Jackson was, he would need help, he enlisted QUARTER RATS. Of course in 1814 there was only the French Quarter and like today it was inhabited by the most diverse group of misfits, criminals and cut throats in the nation. Jackson was charismatic enough to enlist everyone who could hold a gun, when there weren't enough guns the rest were given farm implements. The only real professional soldiers were regular militia from Tennessee and Mississippi, some Marines and Navy, but the majority were made up of what at best could be called "rag tag." Frontiersman with muskets who were the homeless of their day, free men of color who were given equal pay and standing, Pirates, Indians, Creole farmers and shop keepers from New Orleans all stood along side Cajuns, and the French to protect our liberty.

Jean Lafitte is still highly regarded in the French Quarter. An enterprising privateer who was as much a politician as a pirate. Lafitte had spent a better part of his time eluding the British and Americans in the Barataria swamps while pillaging Spanish merchant vessels. When the war came to his city of New Orleans Lafitte sided with the Americans offering his men and looted Spanish munitions for a price and a pardon.  His offer had nothing to do with patriotism, he was betting on who he believed would win and who he thought would allow him to continue his plundering. A true mercenary and the start of the military industrial complex in the Americas. Men of his character can still be found operating in the French Quarter.

The British were appalled by the hit and run tactics employed by the Americans. Choctaw Indians and "dirty shirts" conducted gorilla warfare against the Red Coats which was unimaginable by those who fought in the well ordered ranks of Napoleonic battles. Snipers in trees taking out officers had a demoralizing effect on troops.  

Long story short, the strongest Army of the most powerful nation on Earth got it's balls kicked by the highly out numbered Quarter Rats.

Courtyards

When you have 10 million visitors cramming themselves into your 70 square block neighborhood every year, you need a sanctuary. Very few of those 10 million ever get to see the nicest parts of the Quarter, courtyards.  The front of almost every structure is has it's toes on the sidewalk. Behind these iron gated and shuddered dwellings are open air  rustic brick lined spaces. The size can vary according to lot layout and building design.

The Pontalba building has small courtyards that are 4 stories deep. Those were designed primarily to provide cross ventilation in the days prior to air conditioning.  The townhouse layout utilizes long hallways, winding steps and lots of windows to funnel the slightest breeze from the balcony to the courtyard. Windows from each unit facing into the staircase are authentic. I remember one windy day, someone opening up the first floor door caused a door on the fourth floor to slam.

Some of the least expensive and yet coolest places to rent are slave's quarter efficiencies.  To my Yankee friends: Yes, former living quarters for slaves. Carries Karma with it.  The original popular layout is an apartment on each floor with two bedrooms off of the balcony facing the street, a sitting area and maybe a dining room. The kitchen area is usually a long narrow brick building connected by an exterior balcony (To you Yankees "decks") Two of these "L" shaped buildings facing each other produce a small courtyard in the center.

This time of year they are Eden like. Old and sometimes crumbling brick walls divide the space into small cozy halves.  I've been in some adorned with folk art and plush with tropical plants and fruit trees. Water features trickling as tiny green lizards dart about the fauna. Drink up under an umbrella during the day, smoke up under gas light at night and watch a rat bounce across the slate floor with that piece of chicken that your were saving for later.

The main apartment facing the street has the balcony that everyone associates with the Quarter, the slave's quarters balcony faces the quiet private court. It was easier to keep them in that way I guess.  A lucky quarter rat can afford one of these less than 200 square foot domiciles. It's about like living in a roomy RV. Most have 12 foot high ceilings with windows only on the side facing the balcony.  No cross ventilation here.  Mine has a large loft space for my bed at the 8 foot mark. Better suited for people in their 20's, most nights I end up crashing on the couch. Too sore and too old to deal with the fold up ladder. At my age I don't do bunk beds.

I enjoy my time out on my tiny private little balcony. If I want to stand out there in my underwear at 3 am to have a smoke, I can.  The other day I realized that the courtyard for the "Court Of Two Sisters" could probably be hit from here with one of those water balloon launchers. Just sayin.

Dumb shit tourists say....

Quarter Rats are stuck in a dysfunctional relationship. They have to put up with abuse and bullshit to survive. We in the Quarter must tolerate and amuse the ten million or so tourists every year. Tourists are the life giving blood to the French Quarter, and also the most intolerable part of living here.  It doesn't take long of living in the Quarter before you stop seeing them, or even noticing their presence. Like not seeing the flies when you work in a barn until you find one swimming in your cup of coffee.

The other day while walking to work along my usual route of Royal Street on a beautiful morning, one scolded me. I was looking down at my cell phone to see if my employer had called yet to ask where in the hell am I with the keys to the apartment that we were painting, when I heard a shrill annoying voice bark in exasperation "That idiot in the white ruined my shot." Hm, what a coincidence, I'm wearing white I thought.  I half turned to my left to see some chubby housewife from the midwest holding a camera in one hand and a Bloody Mary in the other giving me the stink eye while facing a building that I just walked by.  Fuck you bitch, people live here I mumbled.

Once while having a smoke break on a bench in front of the Upper Pontalba, a tourist stopped, pointed a camera directly at me and snapped a photo. They then walked away without so much as a thank you. How rude I thought. What if I hung out in the parking lot of where you worked and snapped your picture as you were getting out of your car to go inside to work. You probably would find it a little creepy and tell me to go fuck myself.

Today Jackson Square was mobbed. As I tried to carry buckets of paint and ladders from one apartment to another, I had to walk at a snail's pace behind thick packs of tourists. Groups that all of a sudden stop dead in front of you, or park in front of a window blathering about how expensive everything is. Forcing everyone else to walk an additional ten feet around them, only to be obstructed by someone's brat chasing pigeons with a balloon animal.  Daily.  You deal with it, it's part of life here.

On the corner of St Peter and Chartres I passed a loud group of four discussing lunch plans. I couldn't help but to over hear yet another irritating woman with a drink in her hand and a voice that caused dogs to bark. "WHAT do the locals eat?" she loudly questioned. I wanted to retort "Hot dogs and Ramen noodles." I know I would have been met with the look that I have witnessed tens of thousands of times in my life, people sneering at me like I AM the idiot because they failed to grasp my humor. I shuddered at her voice and continued on my way fantasizing about smacking her in the face with  a paint brush still wet with the color "Urban Putty."

 WHERE do the locals eat? would have been a more appropriate question. If the four of you hadn't seemed like total dickwads, I might have taken the time to point you towards a few places where you would have found great food at very reasonable prices by the French Quarter standard. Real Cajun food prepared by real Cajuns while sitting next to locals who might have bought you drinks if they liked you. I kept quiet, I wouldn't do that to my neighbors. You probably would have responded "Coop's Place? I neva heard of it! Where's Bubba Gumps?"  Go. That's all you deserve anyway.

A page from history

The blog posts about the Pontalba Apartments has gotten some great responses. One came from a reader in New York City who shared with me his memories of the building as a child. Here is a photo taken of the reader's parent's wedding reception held in apartment 502B in 1945.

 

My great aunt lived in a corner Pontalba apartment overlooking Decatur and St. Peter from the late 1920s until the late 1960s. I still have dreams about the interior stairway from the street to the second floor. When I was a kid, something about those wide, curving stairs, the shadows, the smell of the old building — were magic to me.

Since 1970 I've lived in NYC,  Lately, I've been missing NOLA, and thinking about moving home. 

Brooks

Right place, right time...

One of my Mother's favorite expressions was "Always a day late and a dollar short." Perhaps I am the one to finally break that family curse by moving here to New Orleans.  I feel like a child who has traveled across the country to find his birth mother, a feeling of being where I belong. For those of you who follow my blog postings (at least 4 or 5 of you) you know for almost two years now I have been boasting, raving and romantically drooling about this city like some sort of travel agent trying to meet a quota. Well, it looks like I am not the only one to do so.

Market Watch with the Wall Street Journal has placed NOLA in the top third. Once ranking very low on their business friendly survey, now it's considered one of the best.  When I first moved down here in March of 2010, the only day labor that I could immediately find was back breaking digging in the hard clay soil of St Bernard Parish. (March 2010) I was hired to work on a strip mall that was finally being renovated after being damaged by Hurricane Katrina. As I took a smoke break in the back of the building looking at a large boat resting on it's side in a vacant lot, I pondered the irony.

Five years earlier New Orleans would have been the last place I or anyone else looking to improve one's opportunities would have dreamed of moving to.  My economic position back in New Jersey was one of erosion, every year earning less and paying more.  Fewer opportunities, more competition for what little was available. Now down here, I have to ask for time off from my day job as a house painter to tend to my part time job as a graphic artist while turning down a few freelance gigs just for the lack of time. 

I remember watching the news during and after the storm, feeling the way rest of our nation did. Hearts heavy with sadness, grief and compassion for what many may have silently considered a lost American city.  Now six years later, many major American cities may be looking down here with envy. A strong economy, lower than national average unemployment and an increasing personal income growth for it's residents. It's the people, strong and resilient, determined to not only just to bounce back but surpass any expectations of them. Perhaps that's why I find New Orleans so inspiring.

A Facebook friend posted the article from the Wall Street Journal's web site with the photo of the Pontalba Apartments accompanying the article. I immediately exclaimed "That's where I work!" And it's where I belong, thank you New Orleans.

(BTW, I didn't even see a New Jersey city mentioned on the top 100 list)

Some more pics

Here are some more photos from some work that I did at the Pontalba. I spent way too much time on this medallion on the ceiling in the living room. More than one usually does on a rental property, but I enjoyed it.

We were the painting crew that started painting the medallion the wall color, property management liked it and decided all of the rooms should have that. Now they insist the other crews do it too. So of course I have to one up them with this. By the end of the day my neck was killing me and my vision blurry from drops of oil paint. I felt like Michelangelo. 

A peek inside

I recently brought some friends up to tour the unit at the Pontalba Apartments that Robert and I have been working on for a number of weeks now. When the guests entered the first word was "WOW." One visitor said she couldn't believe that such large luxurious apartments were available in the French Quarter. Two large bedrooms with original marble fireplaces, open up to a third floor balcony overlooking the very center of Jackson Square. The statue is directly in front of this center unit. Out of the half dozen or so remodelings that we have done, this one by far has the nicest view of the Square and St Louis Cathedral.

Not to come across as some sort of real estate broker, but this place is beautiful. Wood floors, twelve foot high ceilings with plaster medallions crowning the center.  Ten foot high doors open up into each room, as well as each closet.  The windows to the balcony have folding pocket shutters that still function despite the many layers of paint over the years. The ten foot high window can be closed off if you are shy about getting dressed in front of General Jackson. Everything about the apartment is grand.

Out of all of the units we had worked on, this particular one has needed the most attention. A portion of the plaster ceiling in the living room was in the process of collapse, as well as a lot of surface plaster work needed on the walls. Apparently the previous tenets had lived there for many years and were "hoarders." Having some personal experience with hoarders, I can tell you that by their very nature they are secretive and isolated. Most compulsive disorders can somewhat be hidden from the world. Not so with hoarding. Consequently, when routine repairs or maintenance was needed to the unit, property management was never notified in order to keep the clutter a secret.

I can't imagine being a pack rat while living in a third floor apartment. The tenets had installed multiple shelving units through out the apartment. The first couple days of prep work involved just removing the shelves and repairing the walls from the brackets holding them up. 

If you were a property owner in suburbia who tried to maintain a presentable home, having a hoarder next door with a yard filled with debris would be at best a nuisance. You might think that hoarding in an apartment setting it wouldn't affect the neighbors, but it can.  I have spent the better part of six months in this building and the only signs of rodent or insect infestation has been in this unit. The pest problem has been taken care of. One of the hazards of compulsive hoarding is that it provides a perfect enviroment for pests. Ample hiding spots and often ample food supplies.

The property management people discouraged me from posting "before photos" of this unit, I guess they didn't want the photos to be taken out of context and give the wrong impression of the building over all. Everyone involved with the Pontalba takes a great deal of pride in the preservation of the building, it's not just real estate, it's history.



I'll be posting more photos of the apartment as each room becomes completed.

Thank you very much

This is such an important holiday. Even if you remove all of the religious and political cogitations, we need it for a healthy psyche. It's way too easy to get caught up in what we think we need, what we believe we want and what we fear that we'll never get. It's a time to stop and look around at what we do have with the realization that it easily could be gone tomorrow. Even more important, to be thankful for the "whos" that we have.

Yesterday morning at work I stood out on the balcony of the Pontalba looking over  Jackson Square thinking what a blessed mutherfer I am. My day started out as usual, giving my buddy Darren (a homeless guy) his first smoke of the day. He mentioned how he was still damp from the hard rainstorm the night before. My friend asked me what my holiday plans were, and if I didn't have any that I should join him over at the Hard Rock Cafe for Thanksgiving dinner. The HRC closes shop every year to serve Thanksgiving Day meals to the homeless. Darren encouraged me to join him and the others I have befriended in the Square over the past few months.

I declined because I have a job and a warm home, I wanted to leave a seat open for those who need it more than I. Darren told how they put on a great spread, who says corporate America is heartless? Back in the beginning of October, Darren was sitting on his usual bench when a man walked up and started to hand him toiletries of soap, toothpaste and the like. Darren thanked him profusely as the good Samaritan walked away. I came over to offer a smoke. Darren commented that although he appreciated the act of kindness, he just didn't have room for all of the travel size containers in his only backpack.

"I appreciate all he gave me, but I just don't have the room, here, take some of these toothpastes." "No, I couldn't." "He gave me five tubes of toothpaste and I only have three damn teeth. Take some." I was just moving into my new place and money was tight between the first month's rent and deposit so I did take some tubes of Crest and soap. It came in handy and saved me a few bucks.  I walked away a little choked up.  Darren is an example of the "whos" that I am thankful to know.

Twenty months ago I cruised into New Orleans with just $25 bucks left of the $200 loaned to me by my ex wife's new husband to move down here. I knew no one but my friend from the cab company Doug AKA Waffle. He and his wife Diane let me sleep on their floor until something else came along. Waffle was the one who talked me into coming down to a city that I had never even been to before. As he put it "To be with like minded individuals." I'm thankful.

This time a year ago was a dark, depressing and loathsome time for me. It has not all been a big easy for me since I moved down here. However, I am thankful for those difficult times as well. They have made me stronger, more mature and grateful for what I have achieved. New Years Day I abruptly found myself without a place to live. My friend Robert took me in to his already crowded apartment, fed and employed me. Ten months later I moved into my own place on Toulouse. I'm thankful.

I could give a long list of people that I am thankful for and examples of them being there for me, Kevin, John, Aaron and Colleen. One thing the long time residents of New Orleans have taught me that the "things" in our lives don't mean a thing. Tomorrow they all could be washed away, friends are always there after the storm waters recede. Friends don't remind you of what they have done for you or keep track of what they have given you.

When I rolled into NOLA twenty months ago, I only knew two people here. Now as I walk through the Quarter I am greeted and welcomed by dozens. Business owners, Lucky Dog guys, bouncers, club managers, dancers, artists, magicians, musicians and the homeless. On this day we look to our higher powers with acknowledgment and grace. Today, I look towards a lady. She's graceful, talented, enchanting and yet can quickly turn violent and dangerous. She's ancient and weather worn, has seen a lot of rough times but still is beautiful and sexy as hell. Thank you New Orleans, for taking me in and being my friend.

Hey Kiddo

Laura, I probably think about you a hundred times a day. Miss you very much and can't wait to have you down to New Orleans to show you this great city and to see how much you've grown. I brought my camera in today to take some photos at work and to show you what I do down here. I have been working 6 to 7 days a week painting the Pontalba apartments on Jackson Square. It's a lot of work but it keeps me out of trouble, believe me it's easy to get in trouble when you live in the French Quarter. You don't have to look for trouble, it finds you. Besides I need to work a lot with Christmas coming up. ; )

These buildings were constructed by Baroness Micaela Almonester Pontalba in the 1840's. She was a strong independant woman for her time and had her hand in the designing of these apartments for $300,000 on land she inherited from her father. Originally the land was occupied by military barracks and a prison. 

In the photo of me (not very flattering) over my right shoulder you can get a glimpse of the Cabildo where they signed the Louisiana purchase in 1803.

Here are some photos that I took from the third floor balcony where I take my cigarette breaks. Below in the Square are artists selling artwork and street performers doing their acts as hundreds of tourists mill about.

You can see the Mississippi River from the balcony. It's cool to watch huge cargo ships cruise up and down the river. These things are massive, they are as big as skyscrapers lying on their sides.

Here is one of the rooms that I finished today. It's a smaller dining room with marble floors and mantle. I painted the walls and installed the chandelier.  I'll show you some more photos of rooms as they become completed.  I'm always thinking about you, hope to see you soon.

Love Dad

Cause that's what friends do....

The past couple of days I have been working by myself over at the Pontalba building. My friend and employer Robert has been busy. Some of the guys at the building ask in the morning "Where's Robert? Out sick?" "No, he had a film shoot again today, he's playing a secret service agent in the new G.I. Joe film, or something..." Robert is an aspiring actor and takes on every part he can get for the experiance. Starting out doing background work over a year and a half ago, he has already accomplished more than most wanna be actors could in five years.

Robert threw himself into it 100% when he made up his mind that it was his goal. Acting classes from several renowned local acting coaches, speech courses, and every free moment dedicated to his passion. Even though his "day job" is doing very well with so much work that he has to hire on another painter, he's focused on a bigger goal. 

At the beginning of the year I was working on the illustrations for the Quarter Rat book "Bourbon Street and Beyond." (copies of which are still available at your finer strip joints on Bourbon Street.) About half way through the project I suddenly found myself with out a place to live or work on the book.

Robert, without hesitation took me into his already crowded apartment and said "Finish that book." He put a roof over my head, fed me, encouraged me and gave me employment when his business started to get traction. That's what friends do. He never once reminded me of what he did for me, or ever said I owed him, he ain't like that. At the time all he wanted to see was me succeed at my art.

So eleven months later, he's turning down painting work because we are so busy. Every now and then he has to take a day or two off from painting for auditions, fittings or to spend time on the set for a shoot, it's cool with me. He was there for me and my pursuit. I'm more than happy to work a few extra hours a day, and sling a few extra gallons of paint to help him along the way to his goal.

Cause that's what friends do....

The Square peg finds it's square hole

I was talking to my downstairs neighbor Dawna this morning, like most mornings on my way to work. She understands what a privileged it is to live in the French Quarter. Her first visit here she proclaimed that she would move to the Quarter, and did. Thousands of tourists every week tourists say that, very few ever would. It's not a question of choosing to live here, it's a question of belonging here.

I'm finally feeling settled here. I have couch surfed one end of NOLA to the other. Irish Chanel, Broadmoore, Algiers on the West Bank, Mettarie, Mid City, and three separate couches in the French Quarter. This one is my own. As much as I hated my transient life style, it gave me a greater insight to the city. Neighborhoods and roomates. Lived in a house that still had a spray painted X on the door from Katrina.

Locals refer to this recent era as "Post Katrina" referring to anything prior they usually preface the sentence with "Pre-Katrina I worked as...." I have never asked any survivors details, but once they befriend you, you'll hear inspiration.

When I left work tonight at the Pontalba they were setting up for a balcony performance for classical music. Last month I was surrounded by Opera singers in theatrical garb while I was trying to clean paint brushes.  Every month the French Market Corporation is setting up live performances on the second floor balcony over looking Jackson Square. Not usual NOLA fare, opera, classical and next month a children's choir.  I'll leave early that day thank you.

I never felt this comfortable anywhere else.  I have the coolest neighbors in the world. Yea, it can get a little rough down here, but it's worth the risk.

Don't quit your day job

It wasn't until I moved to NOLA that I could call myself a full time artist. Illustrator for the Quarter Rat magazine, commercial graphics and a house painter for some of the most beautiful buildings in America.  I approach house painting with the same passion and zeal as I did for my artwork that went into galleries back in New Jersey, however this art pays the rent.

The painting company that I work for, Pride Improvements has been contracted by the Upper Pontalba in the French Quarter to help with their extensive remodeling project for the apartments over looking Jackson Square. For those of you not familiar with the city, the French Quarter is the heart of New Orleans, Jackson Square is the very center of activity of the Quarter, The Pontalba buildings surround Jackson Square.

I never lived so close to where I worked, a three block walk from my apartment on Toulouse every morning brings me to a theatrical stage that I can call my office. One side of the set has St Louis Cathedral, the other side has Mississippi River boats with Andrew Jackson on horseback center stage. The comedies and tragedies unfold daily in front of my place of work with live music being played by street performers as I Spackle and paint a glorious old building.

Every day I get to cross paths with some of the most interesting characters that the French Quarter have to offer. Mimes, musicians, magicians and a few homeless folks that I have befriended during my smoke breaks. It's a privilege to work here on this fantastic piece of history. A few times while sitting outside on the promenade steps sipping coffee and enjoying a cigarette in my drop cloth work clothes I have had tourists snap my picture, I guess I qualify now as "local character."

I'll be writing a lot about the Square and Pontalba, it's a major part of my life right now. The term "Quarter Rat" is often associated with the bartenders and food service industries in the Quarter, contractors are the unsung rats. These historic building are authentic, no aluminum siding, no vinyl windows and no short cuts to keeping them looking great. Like aging beauty queens, the buildings are high maintenance. Every morning I step around fellow contractors on my walk who are working hard to keep roofs from leaking, paint from peeling and walls from cracking.