There are so many traditions associated with Thanksgiving: Gorging on three days’ worth of food in one meal, bickering with in-laws over politics, a week’s wage lost on football games and the occasional errant balloon injuring dozens at the Macy’s Parade.
Here in New Orleans, specifically the French Quarter, the tradition of accusing businesses of being racist. This ritual stems from the Bayou Classic, the annual college football game hosted at the Superdome between Grambling State and Southern University. Again, we host the rival college game for the 52nd season. New Orleans will be populated by thousands of fans from historically Black colleges.
This happens to coincide with the time when many of our businesses may choose to close their doors for a few days around Thanksgiving and the following weekend. This has, in many previous years, brought up allegations of our local business having a racial motivation for the closures because it directly impacts the fun the visitors are able to have on Bourbon Street. There will be many social media posts calling out the “racist business owners” for blatant discrimination. The outrage is fatter than any genetically modified turkey.
As a service industry worker here in The French Quarter for the past 15 years, allow me to offer these insights.
First, as service workers we are expected, even demanded to work long, hard hours for every other major and minor holiday during the rest of the year. Christmas, New Year’s Eve, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter, Memorial Day, Mother’s Day, the Fourth of July, Labor Day and Halloween. Not to mention Mardi Gras, the rest of the city just shuts down for it.”
Good luck trying to find any local business to return a call as Carnival starts to get into full swing. Other than the essential government services like police and fire who like us have no choice, the city government practically closes down. If you were so presumptuous as to dare to ask your employer for time off, his laughter would drown out the jukebox. You either work 12 hour shifts for a week straight like your coworkers or you can quit.
Thanksgiving Day has become sort of a default for staff to have one holiday to enjoy being served instead of serving. We too have friends and families that we would relish time to spend with. Being a traditional family-oriented holiday, karaoke on Bourbon Street isn’t the first activity that comes to mind. It’s not that big of an ask. How about a little support for the working proletariat pushing back against heartless capitalist systems denying us of our basic human need to enjoy a holiday.
Second: This time is often spent by the businesses to do much needed maintenance work to their establishments. Most are open seven days a week and are only closed for a few hours per day. That’s enough time to clean and do simple repairs, but major work that may take a couple of days cannot be addressed in a couple of hours. I know of one establishment utilizing this year’s closure to do some floor tile work. It needs a few days of no one walking on it to set properly. These old buildings require a lot of services, plumbing, painting, electrical etc. That cannot be rushed.
Third: To accuse any establishment in New Orleans of being “rAcIst” is ludicrous. Take a look around any other weekend; half of the staff and customers are most likely Black. What do you think? Behind all of the shuttered doors and windows this weekend Klan meetings are being held?
Allow me to submit this piece of evidence. July Fourth weekend New Orleans hosts Essence Fest, an exclusively Black event that our doors are always open to welcome them and their money. We’re capitalists, the only color we care about is green. If they were the crackers that online warriors claim they are, then Billy Bob would be able to find an excuse to close for that Black event as well.
Just allow the service industry workers to have one holiday for themselves and allow the maintenance workers some time to glue everything back together.
Working in the service industry can be pretty boring sometimes. The same ole everyone else having fun while you work. Halloween is one of those days that breaks up the boredom and monotony. Patrons parade in and out in some great costumes and generally that night draws a different crowd. Not the usual weekend partiers but those that only go out a few times a year as they grow older. Looking for fun and not afraid to splurge.
When I drove cab at night in New jersey it was actually kind of fun on Halloween. Always busy, good tips and a non-stop spectacle. Creative garb sometimes lampooning topical news stories, superheroes, sexy nurses or sexy cops with a sprinkling of drunken zombies. At the end of my night, I would vacuum up all of the feathers, sequins and props.
I never knew what to expect when the customer would walk towards my Crown Vic. I always kissed up by complementing their creativity. We had this one weekend regular who always took a cab to a local club “The Headliner” in Neptune NJ. Each year they had a massive costume contest with a $1,000 prize or something. Even though he was a regular and I heard his address dispatched countless times, this was the first night I actually had him as my passenger.
He exited his apartment (40-ish) wearing torn blue jeans, Converse high-tops, an AC/DC black T-shirt, leather biker jacket, baseball cap and the cheesiest shoulder length black wig. Totally nailed the Mike Myer’s “Wayne’s World” character. When he climbed in, I greeted him with “Hey, Wayne!” He responded with a “Huh?” I guess it didn’t register with him. As I dropped him off at The Headliner I said, “Good luck with the contest.” All though I knew there would be way better costumes than his.
A month or so later, dispatch radios me his address again going to the same place. A couple of minutes after being out front he exits the apartment wearing torn blue jeans, Converse high-tops, an AC/DC black T-shirt, leather biker jacket, baseball cap and the cheesy shoulder length black wig. That wasn’t a costume he was wearing on Halloween, it’s how he always dresses right down to the cheap wig. I mentioned this to the dispatcher back at the cab stand and he laughed “Not a costume, he’s been dressing like that for years!”
10 years later on Halloween I’m working as a dishwasher at a Sicilian restaurant in the French Quarter. The place had been slammed all night. It was close to closing and I was trying to keep caught up. I stuck my head out of the kitchen to see a table of 6 getting up to leave. I grab the plastic tub and start bussing the table as a couple stayed to take care of the tab. The two were maybe in their late 30’s, very professional looking with nice costumes. I can’t remember hers, but he was Kato from The Green Hornet. I mean every detail. The exact hat, mask and chauffeur suit. Neither of them seemed to be having a good night.
“Hey KATO! Did you enjoy your meal?” His head snapped in my direction as he was paying the tab. “What did you call me?” “Uhm, Kato? From the Green Hornet, right?” “Thank fuckin god! Someone tonight knew who the fuck I am! You are the only one, THANK YOU!” He pulls a $20 out of his wallet and tosses it on the table for me. “Naw that’s ok man..” “NO! You take it. You made my night that at least one person knew who Kato was!” I glanced at his wife who was now kind of smirk-giggling. I guess she was relieved her husband was in a less pissy mood now.
So, this Halloween have fun, make money and keep guessing.
Barking at tourists in the mid-day sun The fucks I give always add up to none
You are looking for a job and sent by Wiener Joe Cause our barback got fired for selling fake blow Our manager got killed speeding on his Harley Now the biggest man here is a dwarf named Charlie
The work is hard and the work is steady Just don’t you be fuckin up around Big Eddie
Beer and titties beer and titties I scream it every day in this goddamn city Beer and titties beer and titties Why does this street always smell so shitty?
See that dancer with the big double D’s? She’s shaking it to pay for her master’s degree After ten years of serving in the Navy I now sail on this Bourbon Street gravy We’re not Toulouse and not too tight We run the hustle through another night
Where’s my shoes did you ask? In about two seconds they’ll be up your ass
Beer and titties beer and titties I scream it every night in this goddamn city Beer and titties beer and titties Why does your ass always smell so shitty?
We don’t mind if you act a little screwie But don’t be fuckin with our Uncle Louie If you get out of line you out of towners We’ll take you in the alley for a Quarter pounder Down on Decatur there ain’t no hope Just cheap drinks and punks on dope
We got some naked pictures of your mom Check them out at THE QUARTER RAT DOT COM
Beer and titties beer and titties I scream it every day in this goddamn city
We as Quarter Rats are, by nature, gamblers. Perhaps not in the traditional gaming kind of way, just in our daily lives. We gamble on career changes, roommates, dope deals and what streets we choose to walk down at night. Why should this publication be any different? Working on this website and printing this newspaper is like having a slot machine in our living rooms. “OK, one more spin…” We all have something for a vice.
Otis told us: “When the odds seem really against you just double down.” So, we started a second newspaper based on the same premise as “The Quarter Rat.” A service industry-oriented publication that advertises the small businesses catering to the locals. But any new city would have to have crazy tourist stories, weird residents, intrigue and be as unique in character and history as the French Quarter in New Orleans for the idea to work. What city could possibly produce the same wild content as us? Las Vegas, baby.
A year ago, we launched The Strip Rat in Las Vegas, Nevada. I thought of this idea over a decade ago when I was an artist for the first incarnation of the rodent-themed rag. I’m just getting around to it now. I’m old, I’m running out of time to put off dreams any longer. Besides, the gamble looked risky and stupid, which I seem to have a fondness for.
We have published four issues over the past year with a lot of free ads for the places to where we distribute them as a thank you and an example of what we can do. We love that city from a publishing standpoint, so many damn good stories, and good people. So far, the city has dealt us with a few good hands.
During my first visit out there, I stayed on Fremont Street and spent days exploring the downtown area and it’s the French Quarter of Las Vegas. Same vibes: wild but homey, artsy and historic, crazy or placid. It might be a good bet.
The catalyst for this risky venture was the passing of my older brother Kevin in December 2022. Kevin was a retired Air Force veteran and had been stationed at Nellis Air Force base back in the mid 1970s, and vowed he would retire there. He did and spent his last 30 years in Las Vegas. Being nine years older my senior, family history and dynamics made a distance but we tried hard to maintain a brotherly bond. Monthly phone calls were often redundant of “same old-same old” accounts of what we were doing.
Kevin rode his bike at least 10 miles a day, hit the gym and then hit the bars, often many. I found out from his friends that his drinking rose to an epic level that surprised even seasoned bartenders. I also discovered he did a bit of loan sharking on the side, which impressed this kid brother. The only exception to his chosen grind was an on-again-off-again relationship with a criminally insane cocktail waitress from Venezuela. Family genetics granted Kevin good looks, athleticism and financial smarts. I only got the “talent” gene.
As a teen he would spend his summers working 80 hours a week on the New Jersey boardwalk. He ran the games, “10 cent a spin” to win a stuffed Scooby-Doo. Kevin was the kid you would toss a quarter to so you could squirt water into a clown’s mouth to pop a balloon. I think it explains why he would eventually migrate to Las Vegas to live his life. I would end up on Bourbon Street.
Every few months my older brother would ask: “So, are you still doing art for that newspaper or magazine thing about rats?” “Yea we are. It’s doing good, we just published another couple of issues. Do you want me to send you some?” “Naw, that’s OK, you’re broke, don’t be spending your money on postage.” “You know, I think this kind of a paper would really do well out there in Vegas…” “Don’t bother. We have dozens of those tourist rags that no one reads. You would be wasting your time and money.”
After his passing I went through the same grieving process we all experience. Countless guilt trips of “I wish I had called him more or went out to visit him.” Except for my son, he was all the family I had left. Kevin left me a great inheritance, his friends. One was a Marine veteran named Chick. The first time I ever spoke with Chick was when he called me to inform me of my half-brother’s death. Over the upcoming months he was integral to wading through the matters following our loss.
After many phone calls and dilemmas our friendship grew, and Chick would ask about my life in the French Quarter and what I did with my free time. I sheepishly tried to describe the off-beat publication that has been my sole passion for the past 13 years or so. It really is difficult to accurately convey what the Quarter Rat is like. Nothing exists to compare it to. Chick seemed intrigued by the concept.
“Chick, if you like I could send you some copies.” “Could you? I would love to see what you work on.” Upon receiving the bundle of my past work he called me. “These are great! Did you really do all the artwork? Fantastic.” “You know, I always toyed with the idea of starting a similar publication out there in Las Vegas. I think maybe…” “Oh you should! These are amazing. There’s nothing like this out here, I think it would go over big with the local bar crowds.” “Do you know any local writers?” “Funny you should ask. Your brother was good friends with this guy Tony Medina. He does a little writing and was a bartender years ago to Tony Spilotro, Frank Cullotta and all of them mob guys. Man, he has some stories to tell. I nicknamed him “Bartender to the mob.”
I took all my raw emotions from grief, loss and anger and funneled it into the creation of The Strip Rat. I’ll admit there was an element of “Kevin, you said I couldn’t do this, I’ll show you that I can.” Anyone with an older sibling will understand. I dedicated the paper to his memory and with getting to know his friends I felt closer to my late brother.
In the following months I bounced the idea around with my good friend and fellow QR cohort editor Dave. Not that he doesn’t have enough on his plate. A full-time professional reporter who has a wife, a house, a dog, The Quarter Rat website and paper, and all that involves his time. Dave also could envision the potential in the much larger market.
Since he was also a fan of the film, Casino, I would satirically send him clips as our business plan. It reflected our personality as well. One of us was an obsessive micro-manager to every detail of his chosen project, the other could effortlessly stab someone in the neck with a pen as a writer, figuratively of course. We made a great pair.
A little over a year after Kevin’s death, we were ready to go to print on issue #1. The same style and look as our Quarter Rat newspaper. Quirky news stories, satire and juvenile humor packaged in a sensational supermarket tabloid-looking publication. We were starting off cold, complete unknowns printing a new paper. In issue #1 we introduced ourselves with a brief history of The Quarter Rat publications and even offered a “Travel and Leisure Section” enticing Vegas locals to visit The French Quarter with a list to our best dive bars.
A good tabloid will often have celebrities splashed across the front page. However, celebrity worship goes against our ethos. Featuring a headline with a day actor who you may have seen but never knew his name? Yea, that’s more our style. Not being able to find him for an interview? Sounds like a non-story, so we made it the headline. It became a quest, posting missing ads and a reward for finding him in subsequent issues.
Far be it for me to ever offer business advice, but as far as advice on creative goals? Don’t wait until you “get all of your ducks in a row.” If you wait for that it will never happen. Get a couple lined up and start marching forward, the rest will fall in line as you go. Chick helped with the early distribution but he’s kind of up there in age. I sent my son Adam and his girlfriend out there to distribute the first two issues. To make it fun, I set it up in the style of the Grand Theft Auto video game, I knew then my kid would pass the mission.
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The Strip Rat was well received by the service industry people who got it in their hands. A publication for them not the tourists. Not a social media site or YouTube channel about life in Las Vegas, but a tangible printed publication. Having to put down your phone to view something is almost a novelty in today’s world, people seem to be enjoying it.
Our team was joined by a young writer in Las Vegas, Nereyda. With her education in journalism and marketing she got it and saw the potential for alternative counter establishment fun. She also offers a different perspective from us rickety old men.
We got dealt an ace for our fourth and one-year anniversary issue. We were contacted by a reader and tipster who knew where to find the elusive Brian LeBaron. She knew him well and had interviewed him years before. We found not only Brian but a new local writer to welcome aboard. By sheer luck our first four issues followed a story arc of sorts. Concluding with our “Scorsese’s Casino 30th Anniversary” issue featuring LeBaron on the cover for the second time.
We would like to thank Derek for sponsoring us in this last issue. A local business owner, and art enthusiast who appreciated the idea of a local paper to focus on the arts district. We think of supporters not as advertisers but investors.
For the next year of publication, I think we will be having fun with “The Rat Pack.”
A heartfelt sense of gratitude to those who helped me fulfill my dream of starting this newspaper. Thank you to Dave, Chick, Tony, Adam, Rhiannon, Nereyda, Heidi, Brian and Derek. To Kevin, I miss you my brother and wish you were here to see it.
I got up at 5 a.m. to go to work at the bars across the street as a cleanup guy. Rough night’s sleep between the fireworks at midnight and the revelers, more random fireworks, sirens from all types of response vehicles — kind of like most weekends living in the French Quarter. I can sleep through Mardi Gras. I often have news come across my feed about shootings and stabbings on Bourbon Street in the mornings when I wake up. I’m not often shocked anymore.
This morning, I was. I won’t rehash all of the details here that have been in the news coverage all day. I’ll share what happened in the aftermath, since it was a daylong event. As I was getting dressed for work, I heard a muted explosion about 9:15 a.m. I joked to myself, “Maybe I should go in late today.” I couldn’t blow off work, New Years Day and Ash Wednesday are two of the days that clean up people are the most essential. Spoiler alert: The bars and Bourbon Street are still a mess.
UPDATE: I just found out from my next door neighbor Andrea that the bomb squad was parked in front of our buildings. They detonated a “suspicious package” in the back of their truck at that time.
Damn it, that’s what happened to my DoorDash delivery.
I felt sick and numb from the bits of the news I watched before I went to work. I stepped outside and saw wall-to-wall law enforcement from every part of the state. I mumbled to myself, “I feel like the janitor at Nakatomi Plaza the day after Christmas. I ain’t cleaning this shit up…”
“SIR! SIR! Come over here please.” I heard a stern female voice bark. There was a Louisiana State Patrol officer on the corner of Royal Street pointing at me. I did the point to myself in a “who, me?” gesture. “Yes sir, come here.”
I was informed that my block, and many others, were closed due to the investigation. I politely explained “I live here, work there…”
“Well, I can’t allow you to re-enter the area,” the officer said. “Can I just go back into my apartment?” I asked. “No sir.”
Well shit. Fine, I have my camera, I’ll roam around for an hour or so and get some shots. I ran into fellow Quarter Rats who seemed just as numb and confused as I was. I saw my buddy Jett on his electric scooter (You’re too old for that Dude, you’ll fall and break a hip.) He wasn’t sure if he was even going to work. Tom from Royal Street and I had a somber exchange, and I ran into Shorty chomping on Brothers chicken for breakfast. Seeing these people somehow made it less surreal.
Bourbon Street was closed from Canal Street down to Dumaine Street, with one block closed on either side. From Royal Street to the river, the sidewalks were congested and many of the people were displaced tourists from hotels in the affected areas on Bourbon Street. It was a bit breezy and a chill was in the air. I didn’t put on a heavy jacket “because I’m only going across the street.” I went through Jackson Square and noticed the gates were still locked. It was rumored an explosive device had been found there as well.
There were many people milling about the river front. A lone bagpipe player was playing. Playing or practicing, it’s tough to tell with bagpipes. Either case, it added a somber mournful tone to the morning.
After an hour of photographing police tape and every agency in the state, I headed for coffee at the Clover Grill. It was the most stoic I have ever seen the Clover. Another local walked in, sat a few stools down and we made eye contact. I could tell that he wanted or needed to talk. The best we could do was look at each other slack jawed and shake our heads in disbelief.
After several coffees and a quick breakfast, I continued my mission of getting photos. I walked the perimeter of the cordoned off area up to Canal Street. FBI jackets all over the Quarter. Canal Street was crowded with one-third spectators, one-third cops and one-third press. I caught Brad Bohannon doing a live remote interview on Canal Street using a parking meter as his tripod.
When he finished, we chatted about what bits we knew or heard rumored. I whined about my situation about being forcibly evacuated from Toulouse Street. Brad said, “Come tell my reporter friend Cassie Schirm from WSDU.” She was the reporter I had been watching prior to leaving my building. I explained my plight. I complimented her on her earlier report. It was apparent that she was personally shook by the news but covered it like a pro.
Brad and I continued down Royal Street talking and taking photos. By this point it was after noon, three hours after I left. I again asked the same LSP trooper if I could please return to my building. “No sir, we can’t allow you to do that due to the ongoing investigation.” I might be dumb enough to try and argue with a state trooper, but I’m not dumb enough to try and argue with a woman.
This could go on all night, I feared. I needed to find a refuge and a bathroom soon. I headed down to Turtle Bay on Decatur Street and met up with Steve Smith. We discussed the breaking news and I asked for shelter. Steve of course obliged, along with soda and pizza. Damn good pizza, it’s because Steve is a Jersey boy like me.
At some point CNN had contacted the Quarter Rat editor, Dave Minsky and he being aware of my situation put them in contact with me. Not to flex here but CNN is reaching out to The Quarter Rat for comment. Not really a huge flex, it’s not like it was Tim Pool or anyone major asking. At 3 p.m., I gave a quick phone interview while squatting on the office balcony at Turtle Bay, explaining how we are locked down still in some areas.
I also griped about how useless the bollards and street blocking was. I mentioned the moveable barriers ran on tracks that quickly fill with litter making them next to useless since they were installed back in 2017. My rant about that will come in the next few days.
At 4 p.m., I again approached the LSP trooper and before I got to her vehicle, I saw her look at me and shake her head no. This is getting serious. I’m cold, my old joints are aching and my weed is back in my apartment. I better work on a plan B. It’s been 14 years since I had to roam the French Quarter looking for a safe place to crash, I don’t like having to do it again.
I only have a potato flip phone with no Facebook access. I’m an old grumpy fuck who refuses to get a smart phone. Maybe I can crash at my boss’s place, maybe Pete Oneil will let me couch surf. Dave even put a notice on our Quarter Rat Facebook page. Thanks, Brenda, for the offer, but I’m home now.
I returned to the safety of Turtle Bay and decided to have dinner, and try again at 7 p.m., 10 hours after I left. I figured a shift change must have happened and perhaps the next cop will be a bit more sympathetic. As I hobbled up Royal Street, I was relieved to see a fresh faced trooper standing by the barricade. I toyed with an idea of a last-ditch bullshit story about needing my insulin back at my apartment. I don’t like lying, not even to the cops. It never goes well. The way my day was going, he would’ve still refused me and called an ambulance. Let me try reason first.
I had my identification in my hand as I approached and offered it to him. “You make me feel like a bouncer,” he joked “You’d make a good one,” I replied. “Please sir, I have been out of my apartment for 10 hours, may I please go back to my building?” “Which one is yours?” I pointed to it 40 feet away. “That one is yours?” “Yes, may I please go back?” “Well, I am NOT going to stop you from going home sir.” He lifted the police tape for me and said, “Have a good night at home sir.”
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