Before we left New Orleans, we had to take on Bourbon Street again. This time on a weekend.
We started out by heading to Pat O'Brien's, home of the puke-inducing Hurricane. And the vomit factor has nothing to do with the alcohol—the taste accomplishes that all on its own. The recipe goes something like one part rum to one part Special Hurricane Mix. Which arrives early in the morning in plastic gallon jugs like so much fruit punch. Served in tall hurricane glasses, it's sweet red death. But for some reason everyone orders them anyway, even though I haven't met a single person who likes them. And there are plenty of near-full glasses left on tables long after the table patrons have moved on to some other establishment where you can get normal drinks. So as we walked into the piano bar, we threaded our way through tables laden with Hurricanes, Purple People Eaters and Midori Monsters. Named more like characters from a children's book rather than decent bar drinks, but I guess that should tell you something to begin with.
The bar was chock full, like it always is, and it was peppered with at least four bachelorette groups, brides-to-be bedecked in tacky decorated veils and other more suggestive attire. At the dueling pianos sat two ladies, both blond. The similarities stopped there. To our left was an AMAZING pianist with a mouth that could easily engulf a tennis ball. This lent to an incredible smile and a vivacious bolting voice that nearly matched her magic fingers for entertainment value. She flew across the keys without pause, and lent an energy to her songs that overtook the room.
Happy Pianist.
To our right, the pianist had surely been drugged. She rarely touched the keys unless the torch had been passed to her, and when she held the flame, it was all she could do to keep it from burning out completely. She clearly was not enjoying her job, and made no effort to hide it.
Suicidal Pianist.
Although we never heard our request, ("anything by Prince"), we finally left Pat O's in favor of a dance floor. We headed straight to the R & B, since we figured it was a sure thing. At the door the bouncer told us it was a one-drink minimum, no cover, and we nodded and walked in. There was an empty table up front, and we grabbed it soon enough to hear the last four bars of the band. Then they said good night, you've been a great audience, see you tomorrow. We ordered our obligatory rum and cokes, then settled in for our unexpected 15-minute wait for the next band to show up.
Bourbon Street from afar.
What do you know, it was Tight Pants Jackson and the Wiggling Butt Boody Band again. As they were setting up, the male waiter we had seen last time came up to us and told us we had to get another drink (at $6 a pop) if we wanted to stay for the next set. We told him we just got here, didn't even get to hear the last band, and he got beligerent, as if Brant and I were trouble. B went and talked to the bouncer, who cleared us, and the band made it on stage.
Tight Pants Jackson just wasn't cutting it, though. His set was slow and grooving, rather than funky and get-your-groove-on. We never felt the pull from the dance floor. Finally we called it an evening and headed down Bourbon Street to our chariot.
On the way, we ran into a few notable characters. It was Saturday night, after all. Stick-elf-crossed-with-Marilyn-Manson accompanied a modern-day bride of Frankenstein outfitted with a tailored black vinyl girdle. Clearly not under any pretense of blending in with the crowd, they were happy to pose for a snapshot. Further down Bourbon, on the outskirts of the frenzy, the gay clubs pounded House music into the street, and although it wasn't costume night, it might as well have been. I'm pretty sure the club was called Oz. With doors wide open, there were some hard bodies on tables stripped down to their crisp white boxers, and we gave pause. It definitely wasn't Kansas, that's sure.
The Locals.
We crashed back at camp, and spent the next few days being responsible. Finally we checked out of Riverfront RV Park, and we opted not to take the Majestic Oak route out. We cruised down town for a final attempt with the dice, but there was no way we could park, so we compromised and went out to Bally's on Lake Pontchartrain. We were hoping for wind, but got skunked and ended up just losing money. We looked over our options, and with balmy skin and sweaty brows, we decided to spend the dead of summer out of the south. Setting the alarm for dawn driving, we made up our minds to head to Maine.
Random, huh? We never said we wouldn't exploit the freedom of the road!!!
