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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.

And to your left you can see....

My first few weeks of living in the French Quarter I bounced from a couch from Royal Street to one on Saint Ann Street to finally land at my own place on Toulouse. One thing that took some getting use to was the mule drawn carriage tours constantly cruising by during the day.  One day while unlocking my front door on St Ann, a carriage stopped in front of my building and the guide barked "This is a classic example of an American townhouse, you can tell by the design with a large open hallway to each of the apartments." About that time I had got the door open so I swung it wide and stood there gesturing grandly like a Price Is Right prize model. I then held up my half empty  Community Coffee cup and gestured like it was a box of Rice-a-Roni.

I have nothing against these guides who are trying to make an honest living by providing tourists with the rich history of this great city. I often listen to their narration as they pass by. I learn something about my new home everyday. Once while taking a walk down Decatur Street, I heard my name called by a man in a straw hat on a carriage. It was a former neighbor from when I lived on Jeff Davis in Mid City. "Hey Bob, I didn't know you did this." "Oh yea, for about ten years, I grew up around horses and I love history."

There is one woman carriage guide who dresses up like a pirate complete with boots and a riding crop that I would love to get to know. I would rather see the multitude of tourists doing something educational during their visit than making complete assholes of themselves with hideous green drinks on Bourbon Street. Although I do believe the majority of residents would delight in watching a van load of "Katrina Tours" drive into the river and drown anyone who takes it.

Even though I am Facebook friends with a few Ghost tour guides, I have to admit the walking tours piss me off to no end. After working a ten hour day in the heat painting these fine structures, all I want to do is hit Rouses for my dinner go home and shower before bed.  Instead, a block from my front door the sidewalk is obstructed by a large group of gullible tourists with mouths agape staring at a rustic old building. The Gothic dressed tour guide is dramatically telling them what they want to hear about the supernatural world on New Orleans.

"In 18blah blah, the countess blah blah, today blah bla can be seen and blah is often heard at night..."   Oh please people, it's bad enough that you are foolish enough to believe in ghosts, but then you pay good money to stand outside of an old shotgun house inhabited only by two gay guys who work as dance instructors at the mall.  One night walking home after a long day of climbing ladders I look down a narrow sidewalk on a lonely gaslight lit street to see my path blocked by a group of ghost groupies as a guide does his well rehearsed shpeal.

Rather than to try and push my way past, I cross the street to the empty side and walk past the average building that they are all mesmerized by while the narration describes a murderous rampage. I don't know what you hope to see, but you are making my walk home a few steps longer. I overhear something about evil spirits and what have you. About the time I get in front of the building in question, I am the only person on that side in view. When I get up to the front doorway of the building I let out a shriek, dive into the doorway as if being pulled in by unseen forces and start to scream for the entity to let go of me.

I thrashed about in the dark doorway for a few seconds, then dove onto the ground as if I had been slammed there by the hand of Satan himself. Total silence and shock from across the street. In fact a few of the tourist start to step back in fear. I pick myself up, brush off and continue on my way home as if it was a regular occurrence in the Quarter.

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.

My coolest moment

My coolest moment of living in the French Quarter, or of my life for that matter took place on Bourbon Street. I had done a hand drawn ad for several strip clubs on Bourbon who hold an annual lap dance competition during “Gatorfest Weekend.” The club whose team of dancers perform the most lap dances during the week wins a trophy, the girls win prizes and guys wake up for a week with a horn over from the night before.

I drew the flier up of a hot farm girl riding on an alligator based on a dancer from the one club named Moonshine. A beautiful, sweet and intelligent girl that restores my faith in women. She’s just a kid to me, my only fantasies of her involve playing Play Station 3. The ad made me a couple hundred bucks that I had to try and pick up. E-mails and messages back and forth with the manager to try and collect. He wasn’t dodging me, it’s just with The French Quarter being such a twenty four hour hustle, coordinating crossing paths can be difficult.

The manager arranges for me to come by and see the manger on duty one night to pick up cash. The doorman stops me for the five dollar cover charge. I explain who I am and why I am there, tones change. Now I am being treated like a peer, not prey. A quick radio call followed by a “One moment.” A very tall, muscular man in a dark suit and perfect pony tail who looks like some sort of German terrorist from an action movie steps into the lobby to escort this artist into the back. He cuts a path through the surprisingly thick crowd for a weekday as I follow. I make it a point not even to glance at the naked women just feet away as I pass. I am way too cool for that, I am here on business, higher up on the food chain than the drooling buffoons who believe the girl dancing might actually want them.

The manger’s office at a strip club is the least glamourous room in the club. The men’s room has more class. A quick phone call to the manger to confirm the cash drawer pay out and we return to the bar area. I scratched out a receipt as the manger on duty waits for the bartender to open the cash drawer and comps me a beer. I look around the slick club as money is being swept up like beads on Fat Tuesday. A year ago I rolled into this town on two hundred bucks loaned to me to get out of town by my ex wife’s new husband the preacher. Today I am on Larry Flynt's payroll.

I am finishing up my beer by the time the bartender has a chance to open the drawer. I get handed the cash as I drop my bottle in the trash behind the bar. I am walking out of the strip club with more money than I walked in with. As I stuff the bills casually in my pocket, a couple customers give me the “Who in the hell is that guy?” look. This is my coolest moment right now. I feel like I have just completed a Grand Theft Auto mission. Nothing could make this exact time in my life any better. I start to leave.

My name is yelled by a woman’s voice above the music. I turn in time to see Moonshine leaping off of the stage to give me a hug. Ok, the coolest moment of my life just got cooler by a factor of ten.  I felt like a hero in a Frank Miller story, this was my Nancy. The hottest dancer in the club gives me a big topples hug. My stare never leaves her child like eyes as we chat. She thanks me for my feedback on her own work as a cartoonist. I didn’t bullshit her when I said she shows real promise as a cartoonist. We say a quick good bye as she hops back up on the stage and I head for the door.

If I had to choose a moment for me to drop dead with a heart attack, that would have been it. What a scene to end with. At the exit I pause and look back at the twenty two year old and wonder to myself if I could legally adopt her someday. 

 

Moonshine Bonanza's Crazy Gypsy Boot Blog

One year anniversary

One year ago I was looking through Craigslist for work as an artist. I never bothered with gigs that were looking for "internship or non paying work." Damn it, I know what I am worth, and it ain't free. However being new to New Orleans and looking to be seen in a town with more artists than parking spots I decided to be selective as to who I give it away to. One ad caught my eye, local publication seeks cover drawn. Ok, a local rag might help get me seen.

A few E-mails and a phone call conveyed that some local rag wanted a Halloween cover. Ok, I don't have anything else going on.  I spent several days working on a detailed cover based on the theme he wanted, "Zombie Tourists." A roommate chided me for spending so many hours on a project that didn't pay. Of course the roommate had nothing better to do with his unemployed ass than to stand over my shoulder and critique. Just get the fuck away from me I thought. I don't see you doing anything but jacking off to Smallville episodes.

I attached the following JPG to an Email and waited for a response. A phone call came almost immediately. "Let's meet for lunch" my new editor exclaimed. I met with the editor Otis B. Easy at Coops for lunch. Hell, a free lunch and a beer would be payment enough for the artwork at this point in my career. Otis explained to me the cult following that his publication had among the service industry people in the French Quarter. How every issue was eagerly anticipated and scooped up as soon as he could distribute them. Ok, enough with the hype I thought, first cover is free, the next will cost.

I started to see this guy wasn't bullshiting. We walked down Decatur and a few other streets talking about the Quarter Rat. As we passed open doors and windows of bars and restaurants, those working inside would yell out his name and ask when was the next issue coming out.  He gave me a few back issues to read through, and I saw the potential for a real creative outlet.

Back in Jersey I had a few folks criticize my choices of topics for my artwork. "No one will ever pay you to draw cartoons of fake tittied strippers" one gallery owner exclaimed.  Perhaps I am not working in the right place I thought. Otis asked again to meet for lunch after the issue was published. Another free lunch? Hell yea.

He conveyed the overwhelming positive response to the Halloween cover from the fans of the QR. You could see his mind racing and crunching numbers of potential profits. "Did you ever think about illustrating a book?" he asked.  "Well, I guess I could squeeze it in" I stammered.  It wasn't long before I completed over 30 drawings for the book "Bourbon Street and Beyond" and a half dozen more covers.

Not to place too much importance on my position as QR illustrator, but it has changed my life. I went from being the new unknown and unseen artist in the French Quarter to being recognized by strangers for my work. I suddenly was connected to the French Quarter, part of it with insights and connections that would have taken years to established if I had tried to do it on my own. It changed how I view myself as an artist and my place in New Orleans.  The Quarter Rat is important to everyone in the Quarter,  it's tough to explain how.



As far as Otis goes, I'm still not sure what to make of him.

Well, I'm here

I have trouble remembering life before New Orleans. Everything from my past life in New Jersey seems almost like it happened to someone else, someone who led a boring, unfulfilled existence. Looks like I am becoming a resident, worker and member of the French Quarter. As I walk to work down the same streets in the morning, I pass and get a nod from those hosing off the previous night from the sidewalk. The Batista at my favorite CC coffee shops no longer wait for me to order, they just hand me my large dark roast. 

This blog is a "sequel" to my last one, From The Jersey Shore To the Big Easy. The Jersey shore is history, The Quarter is where my future lies among the awe struck tourists and empty handgrenade cups.