On a dark note...

A friend who I worked with doing background just posted from the ER. Apparently she got mugged and roughed up pretty bad.  The thugs took all of the money she had earned working the past 24 hours. As she laid on the ground dazed and bleeding, herds of revelers just stepped over her. Another girl from Tulane was shot tonight.

I'm sure tomorrow the news will be filled with gruesome stories of shootings, robberies and rapes. The lesser crimes will be so numerous that they probably won't even make police reports. One of the reason I don't mind staying in from the festivities that so many travel here to partake in. This city can turn vicious at the drop of a jester hat. Halloween night an Iraq war veteran was walking down Bourbon with his wife when a group of guys made a comment to her. The Marine of course defended his wife's honor. He was stabbed to death.

Thanksgiving day a popular bartender in the French Quarter had just finished a long grueling shift. While leaving the Quarter he had an altercation with a group of teens and was shot to death. As much as I praise the city I will not deny the ugly, vicious dark side of NOLA. For hundreds of years cutthroats, thieves and scum have roamed these streets in search of victims.



My friend who was cruelly attacked tonight was sober but tired after working for so many hours. She was lucky to have escape with her precious life. Many victims tonight can blame only themselves for not knowing the area and being an easy drunk mark. Tourists and money are like chum in these shark filled streets. 

I don't work on Mardi Gras

I knew a guy who made that statement anytime he applied for a job. Needless to say he never really worked. The painting company I am working for is swamped with work, in fact a few extra people have been hired on. So today we started off to work and gave up on the one job site on Esplenade in the Quarter. Thick sluggish traffic being detoured around parade routes and streets cluttered with  float traffic and dim witted drunks stepping in front of cars without even glancing up. The only way I could describe the entire City of New Orleans to New Jersians would be imagine Seaside Heights on a Fourth Of July weekend.



Beneath the overpasses on Claiborne large crowds flowed towards countless Bar B Qs as the music took on an eerie sound echoeing under the traffic of I-10. Every route that we tried to navigate was lined with brightly costumed groups of liquored up revelers who obviously don't work on Mardi Gras either. We were trying in vein to get caught up on jobs. Deciding that working in the French Quarter was out of the question today, we slowly headed to a painting and siding job uptown. While working, a surprised home owner stuck her head out and proclaimed "Oh, your:e working TODAY? It's Mardi Gras..." "Yea, well, we're Yankees, so here we are."

There are many people who are working today in New Orleans, bartenders, servers, cab drivers, cops and emergancy workers.  I know what they are going through having driven cab on the Jersey Shore for five years. Tomorrow they will wake up exhuasted, aching and with a hatred for humanity.

We were going to run an errand to the Post Office, but they don't work on Mardi Gras either. 

CP3

Calliope Projects, third ward, New Orleans.

I write a lot about the French Quarter and the culture in NOLA. It's a city of great diversity and adversity. Here is a local hero, C Murder.

A Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat...

For some people Thanksgiving wouldn't be Thanksgiving without binge eating on turkey, parades, football games or family dramas.  Well, the only tradition some of us hold dear is Arlo. 

You're Uncle Sam's Bitch....

Over my 48 years of life, I've been patted down by cops a few times. When I was younger with longer hair driving 40 mph in a 25 zone, I'd find myself leaning on the hood of my car. Standing there at one in the morning with red, white and blue lights blinding me as some bored hard ass cop searched me. The official law enforcement rational would be: searching me for weapons for the safety of the police officer, searching me for contraband.  Some little dicked jerk water cop hoping to find something to get a bust out of. (BTW in Wall Township NJ in '89 a cop totally missed a quarter once of weed stashed in my right work boot, ha ha)

There is another purpose behind these type of searches that probably most cops don't even recognize. Forget the weapons or drug finds, it has to do with keeping us in our place. It's the cop, TSA or just authority in general reminding us who is in charge. Nothing dehumanizes an individual more than to force them to submit to a search. Hands on the hood, spread your legs, you're my bitch. I will touch you anywhere I choose, I will rummage through your pockets and I can take anything off of your person that I choose. I am the Alpha, you are my bitch.

These airport searches by the TSA are rationalized by terrorism.  That's the surface story. Every mom, dad and child groped and prodded for the protection of all. I won't even go into the whole hypocrisy of political correctness in how everyone must be searched in order to prevent "racial profiling." If you're of middle eastern descent don't get pissed at the airport screeners for pulling you out of line for a thorough search. Get pissed at your 19 fellow countrymen for giving them a reason. When a 90 year old white woman hijacks and crashes an airliner, then we search everyone.

This is what is angering Americans so much about the latest airport screening procedures. Not just some rent a fed grabbing our junk, or seeing our out of shape bodies on a TV screen, it's us as supposedly free law abiding citizens being dehumanized. Being forced to submit to Big Brother, publicly reminded who is in charge. A demonstration of who has the power, who is in control and who is Uncle Sam's bitch.

How'd Halloween weekend go?

It was a madhouse. Locals said it was as insane as Mardi Gras. Between the holiday and the Steelers getting their asses kicked the adrenaline was making the streets slippery. As much as I praise this city, make no mistake, it's hardcore gangster land.  The touristy French Quarter draws in predators like a beach filled with Sea Lions attracts sharks.

Shortly before 7 p.m., two men, both visitors from Arizona, were slashed on St. Peter Street near the Mississippi River in the French Quarter. The pair became embroiled in an argument with a group consisting of two men and two women. One suspect cut one victim on the arm with an unknown object. The second victim was hit in the eye with a brick, according to police.


Two men were wounded by gunfire in Mid-City on Saturday night. The shooting occurred shortly before 9 in the 3000 block of Bienville Street. The men, both 24, were sitting in front of a house when gunshots rang out. One man was shot in the foot; the other received a graze wound to the left arm. They were later listed in stable condition.


A 23-year-old Marine who lived in Metairie was fatally stabbed following an argument with a man who defamed the Marine's wife. The suspect yelled derogatory comments at Ryan Lekosky's wife as the couple walked about 3:30 a.m. near the intersection of Dauphine and Iberville streets in the French Quarter, police said. Lekosky tried to intervene in the altercation between his wife and the suspect. The suspect turned on Lekosky, stabbing him several times. The suspect then returned to his vehicle and drove away on Dauphine Street, toward Canal Street. Lekosky died from his wounds.


Shortly after 1 a.m. Monday, a 20-year-old man was shot in the 100 block of Bourbon Street. New Orleans police Monday night identified a teenager who they believe was involved in the shooting. A warrant for attempted second-degree murder has been issued for 19-year-old Latrell Coleman. Eighth District officers were in the 100 block of Bourbon Street breaking up a fight when they heard shots fired within the block. Officers then located the victim lying in the street with a gunshot wound to the head.


Brendan McCarthy, The Times-Picayune 

Saints beat the Steelers 20 - 10.

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?

I don't miss driving taxi

I was telling my landlord Mr. Pollock some of the dysfunctional adventures driving cab at night on the Jersey Shore. Anyone who is out at three AM is up to no good. One night I had a drunk shoot through a stop sign and almost park his Tahoe in my lap. If I hadn't swerved three feet to the right, I would probably still be going for physical therapy. My next fare was one of our regulars who stumbled into my cab with the motor skills of a tranquilized water buffalo. "I probably could've driven home, but the cops are such ball busters around here...ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ" Yea, I guess the three times the courts revoked your license for D.U.I., it was just to bust your chops.

Hardcore alchies are manipulators, I've heard it all. We had this one regular woman who I refused to talk to when she was wasted. In order to pull me in, out of the blue she starts balling.
"Waaaaaaaaa, my husband beats me."
"Yea? How long has that been going on?"
"For years!"
"Shut up then. The first time it happens you have my sympathy. Every time afterwards it's your own damn fault. The fact you have kids at home and don't do anything to change the situation makes you as big of a dirt bag as your old man."
Feminists would play her as a victim caught in a cycle of abuse. My father hit my mother ONCE. After he was taken away in a police car he never set foot in the house again.

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

Rough Town

A few days ago seven people were shot down in the French Quarter at the end of "French Quarter Fest." I had just finish a day of juggling on Royal Street, and was standing on Canal Street waiting for a bus home. Two NOLAPD cars tore down the street with sirens blasting, seconds later three more came ripping around the corner. Soon five more sped by me doing 60 MPH.

I heard the next day that seven people had been shot at Canal and Royal. Since I've been here, I've heard news accounts of groups of people getting shot. Back in Jersey it was one, maybe two people getting shot. Down here, the perp doesn't stop until he empties the clip. FIVE FAMILY MEMBERS, TWO CATS AND ONE DOG were shot yesterday during a dispute over the TV remote.....

Ironically the Southern Republicans were also in town doing what ever it is Republicans do when they get together.

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.

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