Eight days in New Orleans. Ungawa. I only had four objectives: to make a pilgrimage to Avery Island, the source of the mighty Tabasco sauce; to eat good food, much of it seasoned with said sauce; and to dance around to good music; to shout Stella! like a shmuck outside of the apartment building said to have inspired Tennessee Williams. Most of this was accomplished. And I have the photos to prove it.
Ann & I got out of bed on Aug 27th at around 5:15 AM. It was in the quick car ride to LaGuardia that I realized that Garrett, who was meeting us at the swingingly named Louis Armstrong International Airport, had a flight that was only two minutes longer than ours. I found this amazing. Garrett was leaving from Philadelphia. Are you telling me that once your flight is cooking it only takes two minutes to get from LaGuardia to Philly? How could this be? Now, his flight was leaving thirty minutes later than ours. . .could it be that wind projections are different later in the morning? Well, if anyone knows please fill me in. Also — is my iPod really gonna’ crash the plane if I leave it on? The woman tapped me on the shoulder and I had to turn it off right at the apex of a particularly choice trey Anastasio solo (9:06 of “Run Like An Antelope” from the 10/31/95 Rosemont Horizon, Chicago show, Jurgen.) Anyway, here is me surprising Garrett at baggage claim. The holiday was ready to begin!
After a fun cab ride into town (the cabbie made wry comments about billboards and the local football team with a raspy, Redd Foxx-ish delivery) we got to our place. On Chartres St. (mispronounced Charters) between Canal and Iberville. . .pretty much on the skankiest, most prostitute-laden block in the French Quarter. Awesome. The place was fine, even though we were told to expect two bathrooms. Lucky Rob & Kim had to bail out. (The original plan was for Garrett to take the foldout couch in the living room.) I went down to complain about this. . .not so much to complain as to ask, simply, if we could move to the room that wed asked for. Well. . .to make a long story short, I was pointed to some very small print that stated that the room may have two bathrooms. I remarked, in a witty and friendly manner that I hoped would win the desk woman over, that the room may contain a Concorde Jet, too. I was, essentially, told to go fuck myself. Which leads me to an interesting theme: a lot of people in New Orleans are really rude. Theres a lot of fake Laura Bush-type have a nice day crap and then there are a LOT of people who want to pick a fight with you. Ann, Garrett and I each had run ins with service industry folks; theyll be detailed later. The desk woman basically treated me like I had boogers coming out of my nose during the rest of the time I was there because I dared ask her to look into what was a fairly clear case of fraud.
Anyway, we were starving. We headed to the Gumbo Shop right near Jackson Square. I forgot to take pictures of the food. I did more of this later. I had crawfish etouffee that was awesome (maybe a tad creamy), Ann had Jambalaya and Garrett had Andouille Gumbo. All the MTV hits. This is also when we were introduced to Turbodog. Now Id had Abita before, but never Turbodog. Maybe it was the humidity. . .but this might just very well be the greatest beer in the world. Much Turbodog was had during this trip. It was also at the Gumbo Shop where I somehow was convinced by the waiter to have a honeydew melon daquiri. It did the trick.
We wanted to get a lot of the very basic stuff out of the way early, so we decided to head to Pat OBriens for a Hurricane. Now, the Carnegie Deli in New York City may be a dopey tourist trap, but at least it is fun and the food is memorable. I can safely say that Pat OBriens sucks ass. Firstly, the drink, the Hurricanes, is nothing but Kool-Aid and a tiny bit of rum. Fuck the Hurricane. The courtyard is nice enough, I guess, but I really felt like a douche bag being ushered in by waiters who wouldnt let you run a tab and (dig this) added three fucking dollars to the price of every drink for an idiotic commemorative glass. What the hell? It was four oclock in the PM. Am I going to spend the rest of my night running around town holding one of these moronic glasses all night?
After some protest I was told I could return the glasses at the bar on the way out for a cash refund. Since we only stayed for one drink we accomplished this fairly quickly.
In an effort to accomplish touristy things early, we made our first and only visit to a voodoo shop. This place might have actually been fun if the workers didnt take the place so seriously. It was a junk shop. A tacky overpriced souvenir store, as the Simpsons once sang. Shrunken heads, crystals, you know, fun stuff for families on vacation. But there was all this dogma all over the place, rules printed, signs and this nimrod of a clerk who kept trying to get us to get our palm read. It was great he kept saying, we have a terrific reader in today! Shes really good! She specializes in past lives! He had a nasally effeminate voice so I couldnt help thinking that I was in a hair salon and he was talking up a new associate for a dye job. We got out of there quick but did buy some incense. The three of us were sharing one bathroom after all.
Next was Bourbon Street. There we saw some important sights.
We hit Bourbon Street a few times. Frankly, it wasnt as bad as I thought it would be. During this first visit we stopped at a beer stand to get a Bud in a plastic cup for walking around. As a New Yorker, I found this very liberating. If these beer stands could give you alcohol in syringe form they would. Buy your cheap beer and move on. Awesome.
We stopped at Lauras Praline Shop, which claimed to be the oldest candy store in New Orleans. Good, good stuff. I got some kind of rum ball situation. Garrett then got in his fight with a New Orleans service industry woman. The woman charged him and said $2.70 but he thought she said $2.17 so he gave the wrong amount. She said the amount again and Garrett was a little slow to respond. So she basically jumped down his throat. When Garrett apologized (and should he have apologized?) she would not back down. I didnt hear you correctly he said. I know. THATS why I repeated myself! The woman was a word that rhymes with Alan Funt. Anyway, we marched on.
We got back to the hotel and I checked the white pages for my old college chum Oscar (Oskie) Creech IV. I hadnt talked to him in eight years. We traded messages and we turned down an opportunity to see Theressa Anderson, his friends fiancee at Tipatinas. Wed meet up later in the week. We were getting kinda beat and didnt want to travel Uptown. (Uptown –which is actually south of you look at a map. Is there any city other than New York that makes sense?)
We headed instead to the Napoleon House for dinner. I had a muffelata sandwich. . .which is basically an Italian hero on round, fluffy bread with a lot of olives and olive-related things on top. (It was dark in there, so I couldnt really tell what was on top.) Id been to Napoleons when I was in New Orleans at the age of 12 and it looked the same as I remember. Actually, this is really the only thing I remembered from my family visit to New Orleans. I kept talking about how it was the only place open when I was there last (1985 or 1986. . . the first time in over 100 that it snowed in New Orleans and, as a result, the whole city was shut down) and that I had a ham sandwich there. Since it was centrally located we passed it many times, and each tim I told the same story. I am a joy to travel with.
We walked back to the hotel, sneaking into the W Hotels pool area.
And this is what our block looks like at night. That neon sign actually says “Girls Girls Girls.”
After tucking Ann in to bed, Garrett and I snuck out to Bourbon Street again to try and get lap dances out of our system early. We went to the earlier photographed Barely Legal Club, figuring anything with that repulsive a name had to be good. Frankly, and I am not just trying to make myself look good, I didnt find any of the women there attractive. I did, though, get cornered by Mistress China, who was a fascinating creature. She maintained no façade about her work at all. She hated her job and just wanted to get the hell out of there. She complained about the rules and how much money she wasnt making and kept talking about how hungry she was. Even though I wasnt really into her physically (I swear) I figured I might as well get my New Orleans lap dance from her since I was already talking to her. Once that was over Garrett and I moved on.
We headed across the street to the Rocking Horse. Along the way, yes, we did see a woman lift her shirt for beads. Awesome. The women at the Rocking Horse were much more attractive. But heres the deal. It was after 2 AM by now. Id gotten up a little after 5 AM that morning and had been drinking and zipping around, plus the flying. And the one hour time difference. I could party no more. I was basically falling asleep at the strip club. Strippers were coming up to me, patting me on my bald head and I was basically shooing them away out of exhaustion. I wont lie there were one or two women there I would have much preferred to get my New Orleans lap dance from. . .but those things are expensive and ya need a little energy to enjoy those things. I hobbled home and collapsed in bed next to my sweet girlfriend Ann who woke up and giggled, did you go out to titty bars????
All in a days work. The next day, Saturday, I took a lot more photos.
