Category: Quarter Rats

Jive Turkey Day

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.

Beer & Titties

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

Welcome to the party, Pal

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.”

Letters to The Quarter Rat

There’s a first time for everything, including The Quarter Rat reader mail. In this case, it’s an August email sent by a reader who goes by “Dave” and wrote to me in response to my Oct. 22, 2023 post about the NOPD’s street vendor sweep.

Apparently Dave is up for a spanking and wants no other than yours truly to administer a hefty dose of what I do best. On Aug. 5, Dave wrote (verbatim):

Hello Ms Athena,

I am dave, I recently read an online interview you did regarding the French quarter sweep by law enforcement  so I thought I might write. I am submissive male seeking a regular dominatrix for discipline sessions.

Please may I enquire as to how much would a 30 minute session run? I would like to visit niece a week.

Submissively

Dave

Dear Submissive Dave,

Thank you for writing. I first just wanted you to know that I am humbled by your correspondence. No one has ever written me before! You are also the first ever Quarter Rat reader to write to us. The tone of your email was so docile and innocent, and so sweet. Nevertheless, you have been a bad boy haven’t you, Dave? Shame on you. I’m going to flog your ass so hard, Dave.

Unfortunately, I’m unable to provide you with any current pricing information, since my schedule is completely filled for the next two years and rates will likely change by then, adjusting for inflation. But know that I’m very expensive, perhaps priceless. I’m still taking reservations for spots but given the new incoming presidential administration, I’m going to have my work cut out for me.

I can tell you, however, that I could have cancellations or that a session may end prematurely, leaving me with some extra time to squeeze in an additional client or two.

Given all of the high-profile political schmucks who’ll be seeking me out, it just might be the case that I am totally out of your league. In a world of possibilities, though, anything is possible.

But you must prove that you are worthy, Dave. Don’t make me put you in your place, Dave. I’ll put your balls in a vise. I doubt you can handle me. Many have tried, all have failed. I’m a pure machine. Give it your best shot.

I don’t fuck around. But when I do, I don’t fuck around.

Think about your own personal welfare, think about your family, your community. All of my customers have left satisfied, but demoralized. And now I’ve created at least an entire battalion of subservient human beings, effectively lobotomized through my imposition of domination and pain.

The world needs men, not crybabies, Dave. Just a thought. I look forward to your correspondence. Until then, keep your stick on the ice and don’t take any wooden nickels.

Sadistically Yours,

Athena DeCruelle

I don’t need a vendor permit because I’m NOPD’s dominatrix

Yes, you read that right! I was on the street two weekends ago during the NOPD’s joint state and federal police operation rousting street performers from Bourbon Street and the rest of the French Quarter, but I’m protected because I’m a dominatrix and some of the cops are my clients.

Apparently, cops were cracking down on “illegal” street vendors, like people who play instruments for tips, tarot card readers, etc. and citing them for not having business licenses and generally telling them to GTFO because this is what police departments do when you give them more taxpayer dollars than they need.

Using federal cops to crack down on people with tip buckets. What a concept. I didn’t realize we lived in North Korea. Definitely fooled me. There’s nothing that evokes a mental image of Orwell’s boot-on-the-face more than this shit. How ironic because that’s what these cops PAY ME to do to them. I’m getting hot just thinking about it.

It’s not like I even need to stand on the street corner to get business. And even if I do, I’m protected. I’ve built a solid and extensive list of badge-wearing clientele over the years. I’m not even on the internet, except for what you read here. People just page me when they want their asses kicked. I never disappoint.

I make a pretty good living doing what I do — no business license needed. Not that I’d ever get one. What makes you think I’d want to give my money back to my customers? I don’t offer rebates, honey. Males aren’t my only clients– females seek me out, too! “Mrs. C,” I know you know what I’m talking about! Let’s just say I’ve maybe made several recent trips to the Pontalba building.

Anything that your masochistic heart desires, you name it, I have it: whips, chains, paddles, nunchaku, platform Dr. Martens and maintain a heavy intolerance to dairy products, among other “devices.” I keep a copy of the Blue Jacket’s Manual to stay fresh on my knot-tying skills.

I even have my own handcuffs, batons, a Taser (trade from an old client) and uniforms for all of your role-playing needs. I know a person with chicken coops in “rural” Orleans Parish if you feel like going to “jail.” I am to please.

Not including bureaucrats, my clientele includes at least two dozen members of the local law enforcement community, about a handful of judges, countless licensed attorneys and highly-paid corporate executives. I charge a premium for my services.

I think about the people in the French Quarter who were cited for not having a vendors permit or forced to stop hustling under the threat of arrest. Do any of them include people reciting passages from the U.S. Constitution? Girl scouts selling cookies?

I get how the government wants to put a stop to random people serving up under-cooked burgers roasted over a hot plate on the sidewalk, but forcing buskers and tarot card readers to go home? This is not why people move to the French Quarter, given the history of this place. Tell me I’m wrong.

What if the Westboro Baptist Church held an open service on Bourbon Street, like they do several times each year, and they passed around an offering basket, you gonna arrest them if they refuse to stop? To be honest, that would be kind of hilarious if that happened.

What’s even more hilarious is how fast things go back to the way they were prior to the operation that the cops pulled two weeks ago.

If you need me, give me a call. You know who you are.

Athena DeCruelle is a French Quarter dominatrix and she loves to punish. If you’d like to respond or have any questions regarding her lifestyle, send Athena an email at athena@thequarterrat.com.