Category: A Vieux From Toulouse

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.

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.”

Sub-Humanity

I’ve made and posted some pretty vicious memes in my days and done time in facebook jail for it. I would never call myself a “Meme lord,” because even I have a warped sense of decency. I will admit I have chuckled at a couple of memes this morning about the unfolding story of the missing submersible. Most have a “Rich white people problems” spin to them. I also see the ones who post those memes. Often the same individuals post virtuous memes about “love, human rights, equality, fairness, compassion etc.”

Thier delight and vitriol over five people suffocating is both disturbing and revealing. They always make it a point to mention that they are billionaires. I can’t afford to fly to Europe, I never will be able to afford it. I would not take delight if a loaded airliner on its way to Europe crashed killing all aboard. “Ha ha! Rich people dying! They deserved it.”

A little kid gets trapped in a well and the entire world stops and hopes for the best. Rich people get trapped in a sub, the world counts down the hours until they are dead while joking about it. That is as disturbing about humanity as joking about the death of a homeless person. We’re all supposed to be equal, right?

“$250,000 for a tourist trip to the wreck of the Titanic? That’s outrageous! They could have fed hungry people with that money!” OK, fine. You spent $5,000 on a trip to Mexico? You could have donated that to a food bank. $150 for a concert ticket? You could have spent that on sandwiches to hand out to the homeless.

It was a stupid idea. Yea, a lot of “cause of deaths” can be attributed to that. Skydiving, rock climbing, hot air balloon trips to the power lines and street racing. I’ll admit I do take delight in watching videos of street racers wrapping their egos around a tree. Whether it be a millionaire in his Lambo or some idiot teen driving his mom’s minivan who played too many video games and watched too many ridiculous car chase movies. The only drawback to their stupidity is the fact they sometimes kill others in their reckless acts.

I bet if Kieth Richards was on that sub these very same people would be screaming for the U.S. Navy to drain the ocean to save his wrinkled old ass. His net worth is about $500 million, I never hear anyone bitch about that. I’ll never live to see him die; I wish I could just to watch the meltdown. I guess only some of the bourgeoise lives matter.

If you are finding a sadistic joy watching this unfold, have fun because we all know how it will end. I’ll just chuckle without comment the next time you post outrage over a death and a rant about the importance of human life.

Friends with the owner

If you walked into Molly’s on Toulouse and thought that boasting “I’m friends with the owner” would give you any clout, you would be met with four out of five patrons raising their hands and saying, “Us too. What’s your point?”

The passing of Erin Churchill is devastating to so many people that she has touched over the years. Even as a casual acquaintance with Erin, you knew how much of an exceptional person she was. For those of us with a close relationship with her, it is deep personal loss.

It’s a great loss to the French Quarter, a successful business person and a wonderful soul is gone. I could write a thousand words praising her qualities, but they all would fall short of describing her remarkable character.

We are all fortunate to have even known her, we are better people for having done so. There will forever be a void in our lives and in The French Quarter without Erin Churchill.

Chris has risen (sort of)

Our block of Toulouse Street was the staging area for the (formally known as Chris Owens) Easter Parade. Just keep her name on it I say. One float had a life size cut-out of her. It creeped the fuck out of me when I first saw it. I thought they had dug her up. Be honest, you know she still probably looks the same now.

At work I spotted the last float had a sign on it that read “Happy Easter, the Cantrell Family.” I thought “Cool, some more grimacing Latoya pictures.” Nah, wrong Cantrell family. She wouldn’t allow herself to be the last float unless it was the biggest with brass marching band.

I was still in a prime location to get some pics of the set up. That means they climb up on a float and start working on a buzz. I sat up on a fire escape to take these pics. Smoking a bowl and sniping with the camera. A skill I learned playing GTA that I never thought would have real world application.

Sitting here going through the shots listening to the soundtrack of Jesus Christ Superstar. About the only tradition I have on this holiday. I always viewed the story through a purely political narrative. The backward corrupt time in human history when tyrants would discredit and arrest their political opponents. Thankfully we would never consider such things in our enlightened and progressive days.