Hey Juan

This time last year I was banging my cab into the curbs up in Jersey, broke and miserable. The garden state had worn me out like an abusive spouse. I was determined to stop being a co dependent of the nation's most dysfunctional state. A fellow cab driver, Waffle had placed in my head the crazy notion of moving to New Orleans. Most of my coworkers didn't think I would ever move. That's the attitude in Jersey, no matter how miserable you are, there is no place else to live.

 I shared my ambitions with Juan, one of my favorite passengers. A young man who if he was any mellower people would check his pulse, an artist and musician. He had friends whose band had played down in New Orleans and told him how great it was. Juan has followed my exploits and struggles since I hopped the barbed wire fence surrounding Jersey and kept running. Between this blog and our facebook contact, he has egged me on and provided encouragement at just the right times.



I'm getting the impression that he's not too happy back in Jersey. The term Waffle kept using to lure me down to the Big Easy was "Come down to be with like minded individuals." Waffle didn't exaggerate. I found folks who were only concerned with creating art, food and music, and for the most part not interested with materialism. Don't get me wrong, it's not perfect. This city is filled with either hustlers or the hustled. The economy isn't much better than the northeast, but if you are going to be poor this is the place to do it. A wealthy man will say good morning to a homeless man with as much respect as if he was talking to a judge.

If you come down with a couple of hundred in your pocket and ambition, not only will you survive, I bet you will be a lot happier. When you come down, we'll visit Waffle at Ms May's and have a beer and laugh at New Jersey together.

"The guy at the end of the bar"

"The guy at the end of the bar"

Another Quarter Rat illustration. I didn't mean to make this guy look like anyone in particular, it just kind of happened. Sorry Waffle.

I'll sit this one out...

Halloween is a big deal down here. Everything is as long as they can dress up and drink heavily to it. Look how fun New Orleans can make a funeral.  The city is recent years with the help of Blaine Kern's float den has been promoting NOLA for the pagan ritual. The infrastructure is here, the coolest cemeteries, the most haunted houses, vampires, voodoo rituals and bars.

I always dug Halloween driving cab.  It broke up the monotony, naughty little girls in Catholic school girl uniforms flashing you at 2 am because they need a cab. Tonight I was invited to hang with Waffle. Remember Waffle? He's the one who talked me into moving to New Orleans. I'm feeling under the weather lately. As much as I would love to enjoy the city wide freak out between Halloween and the Steelers being in town, I am not up for it.




I'm old, I need to pace myself in this town, or I won't make it to see my first Mardi Gras.

Hey, Waffle....

Have any suggestions for Halloween? What are your plans?

What that woman she been doin' to me...

About 6 years ago in New Jersey I had a friend who had come down to New Orleans on a drinking binge with her friends. Upon her return she told me what a great city it was and that I should visit it someday. I doubt she ever ventured much farther than Bourbon Street. During the weeks following Katrina, like the rest of the nation I had a dull sickness in my gut. Sick from the idea that a city in the most developed nation of the world would be reduced to what we were watching on TV. Sickness from the fact that I never would get a chance to visit the same great place I had heard about.

Last summer in NJ my buddy Waffle kept telling me of this great city inhabited by artists of all sorts. People who were friendly and likable. An atmosphere of generosity and optimism. Being from NJ, I doubted any place like that was real, let alone the one from the news footage. "New Orleans? Is that still there?"  It was as if he was speaking of the lost city of Atlantis. "Fuck it, I have to get out of Jersey or I'll start to go Travis Bickle on my passengers."  From the moment I rolled into town, I have been welcomed, inspired and filled with hope.

Everyone here has a story worthy of a novel. Some who didn't leave or returned soon after to help rebuild are suffering from Post Traumatic Stress. Entire neighborhoods are still scarred and damaged, but most are thriving. One of my first jobs down here was as a laborer at a strip mall being rebuilt in St. Bernard Parish. As far as the eye could see, abandoned housing with a few large boats still just sitting in vacant lots where they had been deposited.

One of the first places I stayed was in the Broadmoor section. About head level a water line was still visible on the outside of the structure. The door still had an X spray painted on it. The X was a sign that it had been searched for bodies in the days after the storm. One could state that it's not the infrastructure that makes up a city, it's the residents. New Orleans then would be one of the strongest and most resilient cities in the world. It's strength is not in it's levees, but the hearts.

I’m gonna buy me a ticket as far as I can,
I ain't never comin' back
I’m gonna take me that south-bound,
All the way to Georgia now,
‘Till the train it run out of track
Can't you see, oh, can't you see,
What that woman, she been doin' to me

Bad Decisions

Bad decisions, nothing will make me laugh out loud when I'm by myself more than when I think about all of the bad decisions I have made. Bad decisions when it came to money. Bad decisions of who I associated myself with. Bad decisions of careers. Bad decisions.

I decided to change my life and reinvent myself to be one who makes the right choices when I moved. I moved from Jersey to ground zero of the world's worst ecological disaster a month before it happens. Good decision. Really, I love this city, love these people. I made the right decision. My friend in Seattle said. "Wow, you had to move front row center to the end of the world." "Yea, New Orleans has been chosen to be the host city of the Apocolypse, that's cooler than the Olympics."


In the past three months I have been homeless sleeping in a car, I've rubbed elbows with TV stars. I got to be a twelve foot high Jester leading a parade down Bourbon Street. I've gotten to be a street performer in the French Quarter. I've smoked up with Asian gang members. I had U.S. Marshals point weapons at me, handcuff me and run me down to Orleans Parish Prison. I've walked the same streets as pirates, artists and musicians have for hundreds of years. I've made great friends. Like Waffle and Dr Maad.


Moving to New Orleans, the best decision I ever made.

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Keep dreaming

I usually hate it when people I know start to tell me about some dream they had the night before. I find hearing about them to be tedious and boring. Generally I walk away analyzing it and realizing that it was way too much information about them. Sunday afternoon I laid down for a nap and woke up several hours later laughing. Seldom do I ever remember my dreams, nor should I. This one however made me chuckle for several hours so I started to draw cartoons about what I could remember of it. This may be way too much information.

I can't remember what I did exactly to get in trouble with the law. However, having my friend Waffle represent me in a Louisiana court room was probably not the best decision I ever made. My choice resulted in the stiffest penalty for littering in Louisiana history. After the judge examined my financial records, I was given thousands of hours of community service. Being an artist, my first duty was to paint a mural on the wall of a recreation room in a mental institution.


From what I remember in the dream, I painted a large hole on the wall opening up to the outside. My intention was to make it look so realistic that the patients would run into it like Wyle E. Coyote. Community disservice. While painting the mural this rather attractive looking female mental patient came up and started to flirt with me. She kind of looked like Sandra Bullock without make up on a bad hair day, but for a psych patient kind of hot. I figured she was going to bum cigarettes from me and that's why she was flirty.

The next thing I knew, she had talked me into helping her escape. On the way out, she grabs a huge bottle of pills off of a psychiatrist's desk and starts to eat them like popcorn. Evidently my only mode of transportation in my dream was one of those stupid little scooters that don't do over 30 mph with just one person on it. These scooters are real popular down here in New Orleans. I've seen 300 pound drag queens point to people on scooters and laugh.



Anyway, as we raced down a dirt road away from the institution for the criminally insane she's reaching around and starts to stuff pills in my mouth. I turn around to tell her that twenty of whatever are enough. I see an old school early 70's police car with a bubble gum machine light on top racing after us. She starts screaming 'Faster, faster, head for the bayou' BITCH! I'm from Jersey, I don't even know what a bayou is. I couldn't say anything because I had a mouthful of dissolving psychiatric meds. The cop car got closer and I heard a very angry 440 wanting to play bumper tag with my scooter....

Then my landlady started to scream at someone in the house and I woke up. As I was drawing these cartoons I had the TV on. One of those commercials for Progressive car insurance came on and it dawned on me. The nutty chick selling insurance was the girl from my dream who used me to bust out of the asylum. Was this way too much information?

My respect for this city

In the past six weeks I have spoken to many New Orleans residents who were here during Katrina. Everyone has a story worthy of a TV movie. Chilling first hand accounts that most Americans couldn't imagine happening in their towns and cities. One man spoke of returning into the city early on and being involved in the clean up. Streets littered with debris and corpses of pets. A woman who took her own life rather than to leave her pet dog behind. He assisted with the logistics of removal of unimaginable amounts of refuge. Landfills just for building debris, appliances, trees and another just for autos. Waffle told about street after street being lined with refrigerators. After the power has been out for several weeks, you don't even want to open up the fridge. In true NOLA fashion, people were going down the streets and painting artwork on the curbside appliances that may still be there for months. Here is the Walmart that I now do my shopping in.


I have heard stories from both sides. Accounts of executions by police or vigilantes. Accounts of looting and pillaging for weeks afterwards. So many neighborhoods are still scarred or missing entirely. The scars are more than building materials, there is an ugly racial tension in NOLA. A hostilely and anger that I never sensed in the most diverse areas of New Jersey. NOLA is a very divided city, and was prior to the storm. Events of the aftermath just galvanized sides. Regardless of personal political views, what you see in the mirror will determine what side of the line you are placed.

Each side will have a different spin on events and tragedies from the storm. I'm sure the truth falls somewhere in the middle of the accounts

How'd the interview go?

Well I was there 15 minutes early, waited for the manager I was to interview with came out. When she did she asked "Are you so-&-so?" "Uh, no. I'm Eric." "oh. I have an interview with so-&-so" A chubby guy with a stupid grin walked forward. I explained that one of her fellow managers had set up this time with me to meet with her. "I'll have to call you back in another time...."
I'll keep trying to get a job at Larry Flynt's Barely Legal Hustler Club. It wouldn't be the first time I thought I had an appointment with a dancer and another guy was already there.

I think this show...

I think this show is as close as I come to with organized religion. Each episode is a Sunday school lesson.

Only in New Orleans

Waffle and I drove down to the closest CVS pharmacy. Along the way we passed a dive bar called "King Pin." Outside was a small group dressed as Zombies with drinks in hand. Of course on the way back Waffle had me drive by and he stuck his head out and asked "What's going on?" a Zombie replied "Nuthin, why?" Turns out it was the annual "Good Friday Zombie Jesus Jamboree Pub Crawl."

Upon closer inspection most of the zombies had crowns of thorns and mangled hands. I guess NOLA is just outside of the Bible belt. I'm on the fence on this one. Would any group dare to do the same for an Islamic martyr? Probably not. I find redemption in the fact that this is America where we are free to offend religions. Christians are used to be mocked and ridiculed. It's been their cross to bare for the past two thousand years. If the reward for them what they claim, then they get the last laugh.

After we got home Waffle donned his zombie make up and we went out for a beer at Le Bon Temps Roule (let the good times roll) We met up with the Good Friday Precession for a late night service. Nice enough alchies, but I felt uncompfortable from a spiritual standpoint. Like I stated, if you guys had any balls, take a poke at Mohamhad.

On the way home I wondered if one of the participants in the Jesus Zombie Pub Crawl gets hit by a car tonight and dies. Imagine if he comes face to face with the real deal while dressed in costume. "Uhm, yea, I was...like dressed as...uhm, you...when I staggered in front of the Ford Bronco.."

Awkward moment to start off eternity.

I moved again

The following story is absolutely true, one name has been changed. Not because my ex-roomate is innocent, it's because he's a fucking scumbag.

5:43 am this morning, I was sound asleep. BAM! BAM! BAM! "United States Marshals, OPEN UP!" They must be here for one of my roommates. I turned on the light and went out to my second floor balcony, looked down. Five flashlights fixed on my face, behind the lights were five large men, five semi-automatic weapons and five badges.  Now I know why the rent was so cheap.

As I stumbled down the inside stairwell the flashlights fixed on me through the windows of the front door. I was looking down at my feet on the steps when I noticed several bouncing red laser dots skip around on my chest. Ok, they're not here for the expired inspection sticker on my car.  Moving toward the door with my hands exposed I opened the door and found myself surrounded by Kevlar vests marked U.S. MARSHAL. Behind the vests was muscle and adrenaline. "Now is not a good time to be a smart ass Styles" I thought.

"Are you Johnny (blank)?"  Squinting from the flashlights in my eyes to see who spoke, a wild eyed Marshal who looked like the actor Ed Harris on steroids repeated himself. "Johnny (blank)?"  "uhm, no, Eric Styles...."  "Where is he?" "Uhm, he said he was going to Florida or something..." "Sounds like bullshit, cuff him." Ed Harris snapped. I won't go into a word by word transcript of the repetitive conversation. My shirt was lifted up looking for tattoos, asked the same questions again and again in different variations. The U.S. Marshals still didn't believe that I wasn't my roommate Johnny (blank). "You're him, wanted in fourteen states on six warrants." 

I showed them where all of my I.D. was, W-2 forms, birth certificate, unemployment papers were, "I.D.'s can be faked" they snapped. "Then why do you guys always ask to see them" I thought.  I felt like the Dude in the Big Lebowski trying to convince thugs that they got the wrong guy. "I'm 'the Binge' man,  check my comic strip."  By 5:58 am I was told I was looking at fifteen to twenty years in a Louisiana federal prison.  Damn, I wish I had some coffee.

I heard them questioning the other roommate upstairs, his panicky Texas drawl echoing down the stairwell "Johnny's in Florida..." One Marshal with glasses, mumbled to Ed Harris  "Nothing on this Styles alias from the F.B.I., we'll have to print him."  Ed poked his finger in my chest "Johnny, when we get to the truth you're looking at an additional twelve months for trying to bullshit us."  "But I'm the Binge..."

Understandably Federal Marshals get lied to constantly by the scum of the earth. They were doing their job, I knew I was going to be cleared evidently. Still, it sucked being woken up like this, and the marks on my wrists from the handcuffs would be there all day. We rode to the Orleans Parish Sheriff's lock up to run my prints by Washington D.C. to prove that I'm the Binge. 

About 7:30 I was returned home by now two somewhat pleasant Federal Marshals. I explained how I was living there because it was all I could afford since I moved down from Jersey. My goal was to find steady work, save up some cash and move to a better situation. Confessing that when I first met Johnny I knew he was a meth-head and was probally dealing. The other roommate was a sketchy dopehead too. "That's not all that he is." Ed Harris quietly responded. The hair stood up on my neck.

As soon as I hit my room the other roommate was grilling me on my experience. Before I could even get my first cigarette of the day lit this flake was trying to find out what the cops sweated out of me. "I don't know shit, couldn't tell'em shit" I kept saying. The nervous Texan babbled on and on like the speed freak he was. Not an gram of cool in his system. Out of the blue he blurts "Yea, yea, they tried to say that there was child porn on my computer. But there ain't no child porn! I mean, not porn porn, you can't see no titties or anything like that..."

At 9:10 am I went downtown to H&R block to drop off my taxes. Afterward I swung by Waffle and Diane's to entertain them with how my morning went. Waffle dragged himself up to get dressed "Come on Dude, let's get your shit. You're moving back in with us." Stealthily we went back, gathered my stuff. The Texas roommate yelled through the door "That you Styles? I wanted to make sure it wasn't the fuzz. We showed them, huh partner?" With that I grabbed my last bag and drove off of Walmsley Ave.

I've been in New Orleans for just one month and I have been handcuffed twice and run downtown. Waffle never mentioned this in the travel brochure.

Butt Freaks From Outer Space

I've been working on Butt Freaks From Outer Space, now it's a "screen treatment." Down here in New Orleans there are a few low budget film production companies. Waffle knows a few people. If he gets me in the door, he gets the lead. I don't want to give too much away of the thoughtful romantic comedy, suffice to say it involves aliens, porn stars and anal probing. If I can't sell it as a film, it'll make a cool comic book.

Feret Street Fair.

Every weekend New Orleans has something going on, festivals, concerts, street fairs or disasters. This weekend was a small street fair at this end of town. Not a fashionable street by any means, but lots of good people. Food, today was the first time I spent money on food since getting into town. I almost went for the Catfish & fries, but the fries looked like just frozen supermarket fries. I went for three soft tacos for $5."> A couple of live bands played, on any given day you can find a Dixie Jazz band playing outside for free. Down here at street fairs and festivals they have Smoke Shop vendors. I could never see that in Jersey. As soon as you bought something there would be a Jersey cop behind you to bust you for "Possession of paraphernalia." In NOLA you could ask a cop for directions to the nearest head shop.

Let the midnight special shine it's light on me..

The other night after I worked ten hours digging ditches in hard clay soil, I stopped by Waffle House for dinner. Waffle & Diane are great cooks, I usually eat 2 portions to their one. I dragged my aching body up the steps to be greeted by Diane with Advil and Doug with a shot of Vodka about 7 pm. We had a great meal of which I made sure there were no left overs.

About 11:00 pm I crawled down the steps to my car and started to drive home. On the way a NOLA policeman noticed I had a headlight out and stopped me. He asked if I had been drinking, I thought one shot four hours earlier would not qualify as a "night of drinking" so I replied no. I've watched the TV show COPS and know if I said "Just one" it would open up a whole can of worms. Up on the side walk to start testing my motor skills.

The eye test following the pen back and forth, failed. The test of standing on one leg with the foot out, failed. I was handcuffed and thrown into the back of a New Orleans squad car and taken downtown for a Breathalyzer. On the way I kept thinking, "Damn, Waffle pours a big shot."At the station I walked nine steps on the line, more coordination tests that I couldn't even pass with a full nights sleep and an Olympic coach training me. My legs and back were throbbing from riding a shovel all day. Now it was time for the blowing in the tube test, first time I ever did it. Really. Honest.

I could not imagine even one large shot four hours earlier still being in me. So as the cop prepared the machine I promised God everything from never to drink again to never picking my nose. I blew in the hose and cautiously leaned forward to see the results. It registered 0.00. The cop who stopped me asked if I had ever been hit in the head or have a neurological disorder. I told him that people have been asking me that for years. He said I should get it checked out. Another cop in the room commented "I guess you just can't walk and chew gum at the same time, huh boy?"

Yea, whatever, just take me back to my car. I was again handcuffed for the ride back, yea, handcuffed for having a headlight out. Put back in my car and got home an hour and twenty minutes later than if both of my head lights had worked. With a ticket for failing to maintain mechanical, which will be about as I had made that day for 10 hours of work.

I must point out that the police officer was very polite and courteous. We had pleasant conversations to the station and back to my car. A very professional law enforcement officer.

If you ever go to Houston, you better walk right,
you better not stagger, you better not fight.
Let the midnight special, shine her light on me
Let the midnight special, shine her ever-loving light on me

What we got here is....

I've been working through the temp agency. The past two days I have been digging ditches in St Bernard Parish. Literally digging ditches, Louisiana has this hard clay soil that you can only hope to chip at. Very hard work. I've been putting in 10 hour days, 8 bucks an hour. I'm going back tomorrow for another ten hours. I've been working at a strip mall being remodeled after Katrina. The entire area still looks a lot like what you remember from the news footage. Wrecked and vacant homes, boats just lying in the middle of empty lots.
Waffle understands how tough it is for me after being a cab driver for almost 5 years. As he puts it, "Being a cab driver is like being a veal." Today, about the ninth hour I started to think about this scene from "Cool Hand Luke."
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Yea, it's kind of how I've been feeling, but it's still better than being unemployed.

Life imitates art...

Waffle and I have spent all afternoon cruising Craigslist. He pointed out to me a listing:

Local company seeking full time cashier to work at an adult bookstore in the metairie area. Be advice that the products thats sold is for adult pleasure. Please be confrontable working in such a setting. Call for an interview. 504-***-****

Now, we are competing. Ironically, this parodies a comic script that I wrote for my comic strip "BiNGE." Binge believes he is applying for a job as an adult actor, turns out it's a job as a mop boy at a peep show. Binge manages to make the best of the position and actually excels at it. At this point I would take the only job that Mike Rowe would probably turn down.

BiNGE the web comic "MEET THE NEW BOSS"

We already promised that if one of us gets the job, the other will come in and leave a real mess.

Looking for work

I've been hitting Craigslist three times a every day, applying for jobs I never even heard of let alone am qualified for. No response. This morning I went down to a local temporary employment agency and filled out endless paperwork. I even had to take a quiz.

•When is OK to punch your boss? A)If he's a jerk, B) If your paycheck is short, C) If you don't get to take lunch, D) Never.

•In the last month, how much have your stolen from your employer? A) More than $25, B) More than $50, C) More than $100, D) Nothing.

This is not an exaggeration of the questions asked in the quiz. Most of the guys in the office waiting to be called for work would ask for a price check in a Dollar Store. Tomorrow at 5:30 am I will be there waiting to be picked. I will take whatever comes my way.

Waffle and I traveled a few miles to another employment agency in Metairie. After finally finding the address different from their website listing, the door was locked. Upon knocking a very pleasant woman answered with a surprise "What do you want?" look. Employment was our response. She was the only one in the office and most of the desks looked vacant. The woman informed us that they weren't even taking in applications. The applicants she did have are still unemployed. By the look of things, the woman at the employment agency was working on her resume when we interrupted. Not a good sign.

Waffle and I, unfamiliar with the roads and interstates were like a Jersey version of Jake and Elwood trying to find our way home. Cutting off countless other cars to reach our exit, "We'd be alright if we could just get back on the expressway..."

A Streetcar Named Delayed

I observed the New Orleans streetcar system. As a former NJT bus driver I am still in confusion of the schedule. They'll have four running together in the course of two blocks, then none for forty minutes.

Classic transportation system, efficiant for shuttling tourists down to the French Quarter. If you want to get to work on time I recomend the bus system.


Although I hear they aren't much better. I asked Waffle if the Streetcars run 24/7. He said he has seen them at 4:00 AM in the morning, howerever it may have been the 11:00 PM streetcar finishing.


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My first parade in NOLA

I left Belmar Nj the day after their St Patrick's Day Parade. I went to a Belmar parade years ago, that was the last one. Obnoxious amature Irishmen drinking green beer and eating the tradiditional Irish delicacy of green pizza from Don's Pizza King. Loud, pushy and most looking for a fight, Belmar parades are just shy of a police state. In the seven or so I lived there I never went to one again. My first week in New Orleans we went to this St Patrick's Day Parade. A totally different green animal. First difference between the two, you can publicly drink alcohol at the parade. Holding a beer on the corner my reflex was to spin when I saw a NOLA cop approach. "Relax duuuuude" Waffle calmly said. "Check it out, folks are drinking, no one is acting like an asshole. This ain't Jersey." In the part of town we were in, family friendly. We didn't see any cops busting any jerks, no fights, no hassles. Marcher after marcher pelted the crowd with beads and throws. Diane brought paper bags to catch dinner. Before we left a corn beef was in the oven, now we went shopping. Along with the beads and trinkets, heads of cabbage were hurled from the 2 story floats. I felt like I had caught a baby dropped from a burning building when the leafy green hit my palm. All of the other throws seemed trivial. What a great town, they hold parades to throw food at starving artists. One float riders were throwing small covered plastic containers like what take out food places give you dressing in. Except here in New Orleans, they throw Jello shots. Is this a friggin great town or what?

Another great feature of a parade in New Orleans, women wear thier underwear on the outside. I noticed that those girls seemed to get the best throws. Glass beads, beads with shot glasses attached, roses, and kisses from drunken guys in kilts.
This girl on the left caught numerous throws directed at her, and my attention. With Waffle's prompting I walked up to a hottie on the street and ask "Excuse me Miss, may I take a picture of your panties?" "Sure." If this had been in Jersey, she probably would've called me a creep and turned away. (Well, don't call me a creep if you wear your panties on the outside)I asked Waffle "Why is this parade so much better than the one back in Belmar?"
"Dude, this is New Orleans!"