Showing posts with label tourists. Show all posts

Friday, December 7, 2012

Pull my chain

A week or so ago I was walking back on Canal from the ferry returning from a job interview. In the Quarter even with eye sight as bad as mine you can spot tourists two blocks away. Things like beads, souvenir cups, pointing, taking photos actually and stopping when asked about their shoes. One couple passed, each wearing Hard Rock Cafe shirt from two completely different cities. They had a bag filled with... Hard Rock Cafe NOLA shirts. I just don't get it .

I honestly go out of my way to be nice, even helpful. If I see a couple spinning a map around 360 degrees and each pointing in different direction, I will causally ask "Whatcha trying to find?" I'll admit I bite my lip when they say something like "Hard Rock" or "Bubba Gumps" I want to say in a condescending tone "WHY?" I've seen tourists walk out of a McDonalds. Save your air fare, I'm sure there's one closer to your suburban home.

At least go to Krystal Burger and look out the window.
You might get to see a felony being committed.

I love this city. Like when you are introduced to friends and family of a loved one, you try to make a good impression. One time I found myself with Otis walking on a menacing dark Burgundy Street feeling like a film noir extras. Like a siren, the unmistakeably cackle of "Drunk girls giggling" is heard. We met at the intersection 3 grenade toting girls pledging a sorority that night, emerging out from the darkness. "What's down there?" one managed to blurt out between giggles pointing towards Rampart. Otis sternly warns. "Oh Sugar, you DO NOT want to go thata way. Turn around and go back towards Bourbon. Nothing on this side but trouble. Please go back to Bourbon." We stood for a moment to watch them turn and walk back towards the light. Not as creepy guys checking out booty, but like two dads watching our girls walk to the bus stop for the first time.

If you plan to live here for any length of time you must be resigned to question of WHEN you get jumped, not IF. You got to look after the friends of the city you love. My point is, if they want fucking Bubba Gump, then go ahead. "BUT, might I recommend a favorite of the locals?""Oh yes please...." Eyes open wide in anticipation of a secret or good gossip. "Coop's Place on Decatur. The chef is missing two fingers from when he used to hunt gators in the Bayou. He figured cooking gators was easier and safer than catching them. Try the Jambalaya." It's up to them at that point. Perhaps the feel safer at Bubba's.

The French Quarter is like hard liquor,
some folks can't handle too much at once.

A recent public issue in the Quarter led to a separate discussion among Quarter Rats, "Are corporate national chain restaurants good for the French Quarter?" Purists insist such blights should be driven into the river like an invading hostile force. Landlords holding vacant buildings and unemployed kitchen staff differ. Personally, I detest all things corporate like that. The Clover Grill might be a little more expensive than a fast food chain, but so worth it. Do you know how many oppressed workers must endure Jimmy Buffet music all day while being forced to wear an ugly shirt as a uniform? Inhumane working conditions by even third world standards.

Look at how many chains do attract visitors, Harrahs, House Of Blues, Marriott, Hard Rock. We almost never get ads from them, no hard feelings. Tourists don't read us, locals do. We send people to the hard knock cafes on Decatur and Burgundy Streets. I've seen what can happen. Hip, chic and slightly dangerous artsy neighborhoods homesteaded by 21st century beatniks who move in and make an area worthwhile. Ten years later it's all Starbucks and pretentious franchisees that the artists can no longer afford. It's not easy adjusting your budget from squatter to $2,400 a month.

Corporate imperialism, happens all of the time up North.

Folks buy expensive homes and condos on Esplanade and then yell at the brass band to keep it down. They have money and influence. So much in fact, they use it to destroy what makes their investment so valuable. Dumb fucks. Those of you not familiar with the corner of Esplanade and Rampart, there's this abandoned 1930's canopied gas station with a green Spanish tile roof. Classic building covered with plywood and graffiti. Habana Outpost from New York City wants to open up another restaurant on that location. Rampart needs something to improve it. For even street wise local, the area is sketchy. One of those "we have a web site community groups" of property owners near the proposed Cuban food establishment are fighting it tooth and nail.

Arguments of scarce parking are moot to my ears. Most every weekend there is a festival of some sort when a parking space is as rare as a virgin in the Quarter. Noise? You chose to buy property in the heart of the Jazz capital of the world, STFU. Prefer the unoccupied building as a neighbor? I can tell you first hand it's a great place to take a piss and hit the pipe on the return from a night in the Marigny. I'll give up my convenience for the good of the city, because I love her.

We all make concessions to live here.

The majority of Quarter Rats seem to lean towards the development. A safer and cleaner Rampart, the no man's land, the forbidden zone after dark. It would be a great anchor of development for the area. A safe stepping stone between the Quarter and the Marigny / Bywater action. A main thoroughfare into the Quarter that now is like a beautiful face with one front tooth missing. Someone wants to replace it with a gold tooth let him. It's been vacant for years, I haven't seen any local investors jumping on it. You want genuine French Quarta? Ok, NO MONEY to invest. That's real.

More than a half million spent on the property, at least another quarter million in construction jobs to renovate it. Fifteen to twenty full time employees and a reason for the next empty building on Rampart to be a safer gamble. Sorry if the delivery truck idleing outside your window while you try to sleep off a hangover is waking you up. I choose to deal with a fucking steam calliope playing "Helter Skelter" at 8 am. STFU.

I never even heard of Habana Outpost until I saw a bunch of signs protesting them. Nice protest guys, I just became a supporter of your opposition. I never even knew about it until you pointed it out. Derp. Habana appears to be one of those kinder, cooler business owners. Hippie capitalists who are environmentally conscious, community centric that treats being a good commercial neighbor as a responsibility. The love of people, great food, great music, no, they don't belong here. You don't want neighbors like this? Move uptown or STFU.

Are you a NOLA purest who despise any corporate chains from out of town? Would you fault a local favorite if they had an opportunity in New York City? Imagine how proud we would be if Camellia Grill opened up in Brooklyn. No one complains if a well known local business has a dozen convenient locations in the Quarter. Do they define us?

Our leading industry is tourism.

The customers define the needs.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

What I learned today

Otis,

Ya asked me how it was going test driving animation software. I figured out this much today. This sh#t is easier than it looks. I want to see and play with some more software before deciding on which one to use.

I got to get me some sleep, after I finish my last energy drink. Let me know what ya think.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Issue #28 - it's so great!

Issue #28 will be out this weekend, grab one tightly in your hand and squeeze all of the juicy humor out of it.

Seriously, we believe that it's one of our best ones yet. This issue is going back to our smaller pocket guide sizes. Less likely to be dropped while bar hopping and we were able to double the circulation quantity giving the advertisers more bang for the buck. Between it be the slow summer season and a miserably piss poor economy, many businesses that we approached told us "We just can't do an ad this month." We understand, my landlady is trying to understand. Being sort of out of work myself, I was able to devote a lot more time to this issue. I have always been flattered when readers / fans would approach me and say how they wished the Quarter Rat had more of my artwork in it, this month you got your wish.

Some of our advertisers have asked us to make the Quarter Rat Magazine a little more "tourist friendly" That would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it? We tried to on this issue (wink). I am currently available for custom artwork and ad layout work. We've noticed that some of you advertise in the more mainstream competing publications, we're cool with it. Ya know, you don't HAVE to use their artists. Just sayin. I am also available for t-shirt designs, web graphics, chalk board menus, house painting, dog walking.........

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

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

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Politics in the French Quarter

I haven't paid too much interest in NOLA politics. I'm not sure I can say that I have a firm grasp of the political system down here yet. Coming from New Jersey I understood them up there. Jersey's last scandal involved politicians on the take, mobsters and rabbis. Down here political families are immortalized for picking up strippers on Bourbon Street or being a power hungry madman and getting a bridge named after them.

Prior to that, political leaders used to have public duels and shoot one another. They play rough down in the Big Easy. I wish elected officials still settled things on the House floor by dueling to the death, I might start watching C-SPAN if they did. Perhaps instead of elections we give them all weapons and let them settle it like men. I'm not saying the survivors would necessarily be the best choice, but it would thin the herd faster than term limits. Unfortunately the best man would probably be Sarah Palin hanging out of a helicopter with a sniper rifle. I could picture Nancy Pelosi pointing a Russian made RPG back at her. She looks like she has stood behind a few being launched.

The French Quarter has had five flags fly over it. French, Spanish, English, Confederate and American. Napoleon had one hand in his vest while the other helped write the laws here. If they wanted something done right, they hired Pirates. Pirates, the original NAVY SEALS.

The basic premise behind politics is the same no matter where you go, "What's in it for them." The three branches of government are: the elected officials, corporations, and the taxpaying sheep. I know my place on that food chain. Recently two of those branches held a little PR parade through the Quarter. "Hospitality Zone" self promoting self pleasuring committee or something like that. Sounds great on the surface, promoting tourism in the city. What's in it for them? More money, more taxes. For us, a little more money, a lot more vomit on our doorsteps every morning.

Another red flag is an "Appointed committee." I understand that not every city related position can be filled with an election. So the premise is that you elect a few barely competent lawyers and trust them to fill needed positions with the best choices they can find. See the flaw in that ideal? We barely trust you guys that we voted in, now we must trust your buddies.

I won't attempt to explain the entire "HO ZONE" story. At first I thought it was just promoting the two blocks of businesses on Iberville Street between Bourbon and Decatur. But no, it's the the Quarter and parts of other neighborhoods.

Here are a few links:

New Orleanians: If you’re not disgusted by the proposed Hospitality District,
then you’re not paying attention

We Are a Community — Not a Commodity!

Hospitality District LA SB 573 amended, but not improved.

Genesis Report re: LA SB 573′s Hospitality District Legislation

Just ran into a good friend Rod the street magician at Walgreens. He said the city now wants to crack down on street performers. The city (or businesses) want only statue mimes since they don't hold a crowd. I know what the city is planning, they want to paint all of the homeless people on the benches silver. Do they plan to clean up the Quarter so much that it just becomes like Disneyworld's sanitized reproduction of the Quarter? It won't work Mitch, we ain't got mice, we gotz ratz.

Monday, May 7, 2012

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.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

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

Friday, February 24, 2012

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

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.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

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."

Friday, December 30, 2011

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.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

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

Monday, October 31, 2011

Herding Cats

I have been making it a point to help my editor Otis distribute copies of the Quarter Rat when they come out. This usually means large armfuls of magazines being lugged up and down Bourbon Street, dropping them off on bars and cigarette machines to the delight of bartenders and service people throughout the Quarter. Doormen's eyes light up, shotgirls shriek with delight when the latest copies are slapped into their hands. I dig being able to see reactions to the latest cover, most of the time artists don't get that immediate validation.

Otis was struck with an idea that was brilliant on paper. He would have our friend Xan on his advertising pedicar haul the boxes of copies while 5 topless girls with painted chests delivered them to the bars. Sounds easy on paper. Being the loyal employee that I am, I left work painting apartments at the Pantalba early (Thanks Robert) to meet up with the pedicar, Otis and by this point 5 very buzzed topless chicks. How tough can this be?

I found the crowd gathered around my coworkers at Iberville and Bourbon, and soon our entourage' was slowly proceeding down Bourbon to countless cell phone photos taken by dumbstruck tourists from the Midwest as 5 topless young women darted in and out of bars with Trick or Treat bags loaded with the Quarter Rat. Bourbon Street stopped in it's tracks as the red pedicar surrounded by drink wielding hotties darted back and forth in front of us. It was my job to make sure the girls had enough copies to drop off. Otis was the wrangler. "Come on girls, let's stay together, keep moving we have a lot of ground to cover..."

Evidently everytime they went into an unsuspecting bar they caused quite a stir, that was the idea. Apparently, for each time they dropped off a handful of issues someone in the bar would offer to buy them a shot. Needless to say, by the time we reached the 400 block trying to keep our group together was a lot like hearding cats. Xan and I were in the pedicar chuckling as Otis kept asking "Where's Amy?"

Chasing Amy

Amy was the proverbial wild card of the group, either one block behind, one block ahead or in case one balcony above the rest of the group. Otis shot me a look like "Perhaps this wasn't one of my better promotional ideas." With a Frankenstein monster painted on her torso, a constant cigarette and beer she was like a child with severe A.D.D. turned loose in Disneyworld after having ten Pixie sticks. Otis turns to me "Styles! Your in charge of keeping track of Amy. You're both from New Jersey." Suddenly this started to seem like work, "Why am I in charge of keeping the out of control dancer from Jersey out of trouble...Oh yea, I got the t-shirt."

Somehow we managed to make it down to Saint Ann with our delivery crew together and not one arrest. I turn to see some of our girls in the gay bar Oz slapping the ass of a muscular male dancer on the bar and trying to stuff a copy of our magazine into his butt crack while asking to be teabagged.

"Are we done yet?"

"Not yet Styles, we still have to hit Lower D and Frenchman. Where's Amy?"

"Uhm, she was just here..."

"I ask you to keep an eye on a naked woman and you can't even do that?"

Suddenly I hear a fraternity hollering and making WHOOT WHOOT calls. "I found her..."

By the time we hit Lower Decatur the girls were hammered, I mean at least one face plant per block kind of hammered. Amy had lost her tiny little skirt somewhere and was just wearing a G-string and flip flops as she would just fling a handful of Quarter Rats into unsuspecting open doors. Otis came up from the rear, keeping the girls safe and picking up handfuls of magazines scattered on the sidewalk. "Where's Amy?"

"Right there." I proudly announced, pointing to her and another girl dry humping on top of a parked motorcycle as two brothers working in a kitchen stepped out to take cell phone pics of the live show outside. "This was only supposed to take an hour and a half, it's going on three now. I still need you to get that script and artwork in an E-mail to California tonight. I promised they would have it in the morning." Otis handed me a beer in appreciation for my help. "Otis, perhaps next time we should tether them together with bungee cords."

We were only about two thirds the way through our planned route by this point. Xan had left to tend to his wife who was working her tarot card table on Jackson Square. At night, Jackson Square is no place for a woman to be alone. We proceeded up Decatur past the pirate bars and head shops, handing out mags. Amy's motor skills were suffering and I stayed beside her like Lyndsay Lohan's chauffeur on a Saturday night. She would get down on the ground and start playing with the dogs of street rats sitting on the sidewalk and her G-string would drop off of her ass. "Amy, pull up your string, we don't want to get busted for nudity." The whole time I am thinking about the couple of hours worth of Photoshop work I still have to do, and get to my day job in the morning.

Working our way up to the Square, the girls would pose for photos in exchange for tips. The one girl was holding a sign the entire night reading "TIT$ FOR TIP$" They seemed to be doing pretty well as singles and fives wear pouring out of the pockets of their cut offs. I'm not sure where Amy was keeping hers. Again I was following behind her keeping an eye on the situation like a Secret Service agent behind Obama at a Tea Party rally. Suddenly Amy stops to look into a doorway, and does the drunk walking downhill walk into a five star restaurant.

By the time I get up to the door, I find her sitting on the lap of an elderly Italian man sipping espresso in an empty dinning room. He might have been an owner or friend of one. At the counter is a dumbstruck hostess shaking her head in disbelief that a near naked woman is giving a senior citizen a lap dance in the middle of her Zaggot rated Bistro. "Come Amy sweetheart, the gang is waiting for us at Coop's." The woman shoots me a "Is she with you?" look. "I think this is the last year that I take my daughter Trick or Treating." I respond to distract her with humor before she calls the cops.

We caught up with the others in front of a convenience store on Decatur as a group of older men ogle the topless young girls. One asks to take their photos, which gets a reply "If you tip us..." One guy in the group pushing 70 mumbles something about 'Prostitutes.' "What did you call us muthafucka?" The one girl slams her half empty beer to the pavement and charges at the senior citizen with a clenched fist as the other girl grabs her around the waist in time to prevent a manslaughter charge. "Go back to the fuckin Bible belt if you don't like tits, shithead!" Which I may suggest to Mayor Mitch as the new tourism campaign for NOLA.

As we point the ladies into the right direction to avoid a bloodbath, again I am asked "Styles, where's Amy?" "Uhm, there!" I point to the upcoming corner where a NOPD squad car is parked. Amy is sprawled out on the trunk lid writhing for a group of convention goers who are now videotaping her one girl show on the back of a police car. Fortunately, the cop is nowhere to be seen. "Aw man, we are so going to get busted on this idea. Styles, if the cops stop us, I want you to disappear while the girls and I distract the cops. You must get that script sent out tonight."

We found ourselves on Toulouse in front of my apartment, my patience and Seagrams had run out back on Decatur. "Otis! I'm going to run in and use my bathroom..." "Oh no you don't Styles! You're not going to run up into your apartment and hide from these women. You have to stick around to the end. Besides we have a production meeting when we finish with this."

I stumbled out of The Dungeon chewing a mouthful of Cherry Bombs and mumbled to the Lucky Dog guy on my corner "Here take these off of my hands." He looked down at the dozen copies of the Quarter Rat in my hand and responded "You gave me some earlier." "No, not the magazines, the girls..." Back on Bourbon four hours after we started Otis thanked everyone for their help and our group quickly dissolved into the crowd. Their adventures were only beginning for the night.

On the walk back to my place to continue with business I said to Otis "I never in my wildest dreams would ever think that I would be thankful to get rid of five half naked drunk chicks." Otis chuckled, "I never would believe that I would agree with that statement."

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Yea, people live here....

Once while walking down Bourbon Street behind two Sorority sisters I overheard the following statement as we passed the Washing Well Washdrtyeria Laundromat "Why is there a laundromat on Bourbon Street? I mean, like, that is sooooooo stupid!" After hearing that statement I fantasized about kicking her perfectly shaped ass with the tip of my cowboy boot. You dumb twat, people live in the Quarter, people need to wash clothes, shop for groceries, do all of the things that everyone else does in society. Sorry if a store front is being wasted on a business that isn't catering to your addictions. Perhaps tomorrow you may need it to wash the semen off of your designer jeans.

I'm sure you can find plenty of drinking establishments that will encourage your new found alcoholism. Lots of bars where you can go in, get drunk and do slutty things with total strangers that would cause your father to blow his brains out if he ever heard about them.

There are other places in the Quarter to wash your clothes, the Three Legged Dog on Burgundy has washing machines in the back. A few bars in New Orleans offer laundromat services. Check Point Charlies on Frenchman is another "Wash & Slosh." I was looking for someplace that I could just do a load of painter's whites without getting loaded.

Trouble Squared

Jackson Square is the heart of the French Quarter, the center of tourism for the city of New Orleans. The scenic park has a rich and somewhat dark history. Public execution of slaves in the early 1800's, a popular hang out for pirates and the location of the signing of the Louisiana purchase. Today tourists crowd the sidewalks like slow moving flocks of pigeons looking for something to pick at. The French Market, St Louis Cathedral, Decatur Street and the Pontalba apartments flank the park.

The iron fences surrounding the park itself are ornamented with artwork for sale daily by street artists. I would be generous if I said one out of four should be allowed to call themselves artists. Street performers ranging from the traditional sliver mimes to 5 piece brass bands to a human transformer entertain tourists and make a meager living one buck at a time. I even juggled in the Square when I first arrived in New Orleans just to make enough for cigarette money.

Perfectly manicured greenery and seldom a piece of litter, the Square screams to be photographed a thousand times a day. Like a picture perfect tropical lagoon filled with sharks, the Square masks the darker side of the Quarter.

Jackson Square is the favorite gathering place for every type of hustler, con artist, thug and homeless you could find. The square has become my place of work, my front yard. I see all day long the same guys and gals scheming and hustling to score enough for the next bottle or a rock. These predators see everyone else in their world as prey, as marks to be taken advantage of.

I often step outside from the apartments that I have been painting to have a cigarette and enjoy the sights (the ladies.) If I have one person try and bum a smoke, then I have at least five a day ask "Ya got an extra smoke?" When I respond no, I get the stink eye as they slowly shuffle away. "Do I look like the figgin Marlboro man to you?" You have money for the cheap bottle of booze in your hand, choose your addictions. If you should break down and give one cigarette to a homeless guy then the rest are like a flock of seagulls swarming around you and your super sized fries.

One guy is kind of cool. A few times he offered to pay a quarter for a smoke. We have gotten to know each other, once in a while he offers me a swig from his bottle of "Heaven Hill Whiskey." Of course now the familiarity has led to "Styles, ya got 50 cent?" The best was the other day out in front of the Pontalba, a slouch on one of the metal benches saw me light a cigarette as I walked out carrying a bucket of paint.

"yo man, can I get one of those smokes?"

"Nope, sorry dude."

"Awww come on don't be like that, I just saw you put a full pack in your pocket."

"Yea? And?"

"Come on, give me a couple."

"No."

"That's just wrong, you're the one with a job."

I stopped dead in my tracks.

"You got to be fucking kidding me..."

It was all I could do from stomping his greasy face in with the bottom of my work boot. I'm working a 70 hour work week to stand out here and hand out smokes to you bums? I didn't want to get too political with this blog, however I see it as an example of the mindset going on in this country. I guess I represent the one percent that controls all of the nicotine in New Orleans, and the other ninety nine percent who don't have any deserve what I have.

I have spoken to a few of the street artists who display their work on the Square also make comments that the homeless have become excessively aggressive with their panhandling of the tourists. I have witnessed a very drunk derelict asking for change from a family of tourists, and when he was ignored the guy proceeded to muthafuck the somewhat frightened group. It's only a matter of time before the city is forced to crack down on these bench warmers. I don't think anybody has an issue of them spending their empty days on the the Square, however when you start fucking with the tourist dollar you're asking to be hassled by NOPD on a Segway.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

RETURN OF THE ZOMBIE TOURISTS

October is when things start to pick up down here in the French Quarter. I'm use to New Jersey where the summer is the busy tourist season, down here the stifling heat makes it the slow season. In the summer, Quarter Rats working the service industry struggle with meager incomes waiting for it to get cold up north so the alcoholics migrate south to mate. Halloween is big in NOLA, any excuse to put on a costume and act the fool.

Here is the latest artwork for the Quarter Rat Magazine, and my one year anniversary issue. This one will be in black and white as kind of a retro-old horror film look, as well as a cost saver to pump out as many issues as possible to start off the season. Looking to expand our circulation into the Uptown and Marigny areas, we hope to distribute at least 10,000 copies.

It's easier for me to do the artwork in color and then convert it into black and white for print, also it gives me the flexibility to use the artwork on the web site. Also I have been playing around a lot with iMovie to make simple little slide shows. In this one I put together the music also using Garageband on my MAC. YOUTUBE really busts balls over copyrighted music, so being able to make an original tune keeps it legal.

Who are our advertisers? Most publications in the Quarter try to cater to the advertisers who want business from the 10 million or so tourists who come down every year. Large tabloid newspapers running ads for all of the cheesy tourist traps selling overpriced Cajun dishes that miss the mark to be washed down by vile drinks in gimmicky souvenir cups.

QR ads are aimed at the locals, the ones serving the above mention swill to tourists from Bumfuque Ohio. Where does a bartender from Bourbon Street go to unwind at six in the morning after a twelve hour shift? Our advertising is for the locals who need to know they are not alone. Small cozy bars that you can find folks who have suffered through the same shit you have. Bartenders and waiters dressed in unbuttoned tuxedo shirts stained by clumsy cheap bastards. Dancers with sore feet and a purse full of singles who need a place to unwind and be treated like a person before they retire the day.

You won't find ads for corporate resturant chains named after a Tom Hank film claiming to have "authentic Cajun food." If our ads say Cajun, odds are that it's prepared by a cook who grew up in the swamps of Louisiana with an accent so thick that it's tough to understand what he's saying. Can he cook alligator? Yea, and he knows how to hunt, kill and skin one too.

No ads for franchise bars named after a worn out drinking song written years ago by an old man in an ugly Hawaiian shirt. Where does his employees go to have fun? Well, if a tourist is really cool, and knows how to tip and behave the bartender might slip him a copy of the Quarter Rat. If not, he's just told to keep stumbling down Bourbon street.

Quarter Rat Magazine is the uncensored voice of the service industry in the French Quarter of New Orleans. From its humble beginnings as a 1-page newsletter in March of ’09, Quarter Rat has grown to a 40+ page digest size magazine. Filled with hilarious local content and outrageous stories, Quarter Rat has become the most talked about publication in the French Quarter.

Locally owned and operated, Quarter Rat Magazine & Website focus on the people and places that make New Orleans a sought after party destination for over 10,000,000 tourists a year. Most of these tourists reach a level of drunkenness never before witnessed. We write about it. Get the picture?

Any bartender will tell you, the number one question asked by tourists is, “Where do the locals go?” By giving the folks on the frontlines a common source for entertainment, we’ve made sure that the number one answer is "PICK UP A QUARTER RAT!”