Dispatches from the Quarter

Once more, Emma Jay for the win!  Again the friend and wook queen, la reina bohiemea, Lucienda needed when the chips were down. Passing along the skinny on where to park, free and extended, in the bowels of the French Quarter, New Orleans. This was usually privileged “local” information and invaluable when it came to car camping, for the duration of her work vacation in the middle of town. What’s a wook to do? She was was here to make money and the hotel was just not in the budget. She owed almost two-thousand to her luthier for the repair on Ferdy’s guitar and he’d already made it clear that he’d “been patient”. The doomsday clock was ticking. She needed money and some of it was surely in New Orleans. It’s time to strike when the hustle is on? Hold on tight to your dream.

Of course she was still living in the front seat of the Oldsmobuick but this was nothing knew. It had come down to choices, mostly bad ones and while she’d certainly made her bed, she was now crumpled up in the front seat of the car, missing hers. The chickens had come home to roost. When it came to work destinations the last few years, she’d used this vehicle surgically, finding her way into the heart of the city, only to disappear into the sea of soccer moms and street cleaners. Now she was buried deep the heart of New Orleans, nestled inside a constant hum of activity and potential. Laissez les bons temps rouler. Throw me something mister. For Lent, she’d given up self-control and guilt. Thanks to Pig Out BBQ and The Saddle Bar for welcoming the wranglers into their house. Relax. This is “Sans Souci”. Dispatches from the Quarter.

Things were going finer than frog’s hair as she’d found her parking/living spot a few blocks from one of the several dive bars open twenty-four hours. Except for a few errant drunks falling into the hood and someone crashing into the front bumper, amidst a hasty parallel parking exit, things were coming up roses. She had it better than most hippies on the block just because she could sleep in the wagon, as borderline miserable as it was, it was better than the sidewalk. Everywhere she looked, people were falling down drunk. If her vehicle was going to break down, this was as good a place as any. Sure, everyone knew about Sarah Fortier and her ground glitter, (the dirt/moss blend that could be found in her hair at Suwannee), but here in the womb of the French Quarter they had something called gutter glitter and while she wasn’t sure what it was, she knew she’d worn the scent.

Lucy understood there wouldn’t be enough days or money to get to all of the food she wanted to embrace. Red beans and rice, shrimp po boys, etouffee, gumbo filé. It was Mexican Monday in Boone but how could she eat that here with all the Creole fare? By the time it was over, she would alone, consume a metric ton of beignets. Relax Mr. stage manager, I can assure you this is powdered sugar all over me. The Veux Carre was alive with all manner of tourists, homeless, hustlers and an army of patrons waiting to take the order. For days, she’d been planning on taking a shower at the nearest truck stop but life and continued questionable choices had kept that from happening…and things were going south. She was definitely dirty but it didn’t appear as if anyone else noticed. She wondered if she smelled like a goat and was just unaware. Wherever she went, a swarm of fruit flies circled her vaginal area. Occasionally she would “wipe up” in a restroom or anoint herself with groundscored medicated powder from Hulaween and Dollar Tree deodorant. Indeed, these were the times to be thrifty.

There were always lots of people carrying guitars in this town. And how is it homeless folks always run with dogs? That seems like a expensive hassle. She definitely understood the idea of companionship but dogs, like kids, women and potted plants required attention and money. She always felt like a noob when it came to the ways of the street. How savage could she be when she’d never even hopped a train?

As usual, Lucy was making money just about as fast as it took to spend it. But she was on the skreets and it took money to make money. And it took money to buy oysters and draft beer but from 2-5pm daily the Desire Bar made it easy. Just take it all.

She was close to the edge and for a while she considered busking. After watching how much the hippies made panhandling in Boone, she figured a few hours of busking would hopefully pay for some cheap whiskey and absinthe. But the truth was, almost every back in town appeared to be hauling a guitar. She stayed on the hustle, working when she could and exploring the Quarter when she was loose.

What kind of establishment makes deals with the wranglers? Innovators to be sure. Merchandise for promotional consideration? Networking had replaced traditional commercials and now they were presented as friends to the audience. The worm had finally turned for Lucy.

The Saddle Bar. 715 Bienville St.: With 2 stories of country fun, Saddle Bar is located in New Orlean’s French Quarter, just 60 paces from Bourbon St. With our upscale downstairs bar serving up classic favorites and premium whiskeys, have a seat in the special VIP area, or hang out on the dance floor while the DJ churns up country gold on the speakers! Venture upstairs to play games, visit our rustic bar, check out the extra-large balcony or Ride Randy, the biggest cock in New Orleans! Like a mechanical bull, but it’s a #bigassrooster.

Pig Out BBQ. 537 Toulouse St. (504) 224-2434. Fall off the bone ribs, duck and andouille gumbo was the bill of fare. Served up with slaw, smokin’ macaroni and cheese, pickled vegetables and more duck gumbo? Christ on a popsicle stick, things were finally going Lucienda’s way. This would be a regular stop on all her future trips to the Crescent City. Right down the street from Molly’s and Toulouse Dive Bar, two of her favorite night spots. Like their Instagram page and let Johnathan take care of you the next time you’re in town.

Her mother had warned her about visiting New Orleans. She received all of national information from Fox News so to listen to her explain it, all major cities were rearing from unchecked and rampant waves of criminals, homeless folks and immigrants and a very real combination of all three. Lucy, once again, did not find the hyperbole to be true. #fearmongers?

Usually when one actually visits these locales, the threat is very much exaggerated and otherwise unfounded. And naturally, like any other place, there are hard areas of town, neighborhoods best avoided. Don’t believe the fear-mongers. Don’t support the war-mongers. Hang out with fishmongers.

Monger in fish, not fear.

Enter Welmon Sharlhorn, New Orleans artist with works hanging in the Smithsonian, Collection de l’Art Brut,  and the American Visionary Art Museum. Wrongfully imprisoned in Angola for twenty-six years, it was there he honed his skills at ink art. He and Lucy visited several times at Igor’s, where he imparted his amazing story. Visit this article from Prospect New Orleans for more information.

By the time it was all over she just about broke even, ending up about where she started. Her guitar was still sitting in Salesury, North Carolina but she she still had a few hustles in mind. The hard weather had broken and the irises and morels were close to popping up. It was time to head back to the high country.

Ratonita Frita and Gutter Glitter. She’d seen about half a dozen mice in the last twenty-four hours. The first was in a trap in the kitchen of the Marriot. “Someone should get rid of that”, he said to no one in particular but no one gave any indication of hearing her or much less caring. She saw the rest after the all-night downpour. Two had been drowned, washed out from their gutters and the rest were noticed scurrying from overturned garbage cans. At five am she was headed back to Check Point Charlies. At the early hour, the mice seemed to exhibit a pronounced and eerily aggressive posture.

She was sitting in the bar at about 9am when the bartender broke out the Red Rider BB gun. His quary, a medium-sized mouse edging across the brass railing above the beer taps. Time froze as he proceeded to take aim and plug the varmint midsection. Nary a sound could be heard as the patrons watched the beast fall into the vat of hot grease below. The television broadcast “Invasion of the Bee Girls” as the bartender walked past the bubbling vermin and carefully hung up the wooden sign. “Kitchen Closed”.

Follow the wranglers as we roll south to the Florida spring festival season already under way with Suwannee Spring Reunion and a slew of furry, forest animals in Live Oak. Check out the schedule here. Look for the Kamp Happiness Wook Trap at your next feral adventure.   namaste y’all.

And now you know the rest of the story.