Last week, I journeyed to New Orleans for a convention. I urge any and all right-wingers to stay the hell away from this city, especially the so-called "French Quarter," which is neither French nor a quarter, but that's not important right now. I saw things there that I have never seen before, and doubt that I will ever see again, unless I start downing shots of Goldschlager while watching reruns of "Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In" or something like that.
The capital of all this carnal chaos is Bourbon Street, a goofy, one-way street that gets closed down at night (although the cross-streets remain open, which can lead to some interesting yet special "drunk reveler vs. psychotic taxi driver" moments). The fun part is only about eight blocks long, but more partying takes place in those eight blocks than anywhere else outside of a Tailhook Convention.
The businesses lining Bourbon Street fall into several categories: restaurants, souvenir shops, "adult" clubs and, most predominantly, bars.
Ah, yes, bars. Most of these bars have one thing in common -- freaking incredible music by bands that make your average bar act in Reno look like something out of Mendive Middle School. In one bar, the Famous Door, the late-night band played cover hits better than some of the musicians who made the songs famous. This band transitioned -- I am being serious -- from "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor to "Angel" by Shaggy without skipping a beat.
This bar in particular, like many bars along Bourbon Street, does not levy a cover charge. But once they get you inside, the bar operators do their damnedest to make sure that your wallet, bank account and 401(k) account are picked dry before you go. The drinks are expensive. I walked in the door of the Door, ordered two beers, gave the bartender a $20, and got $9.50 back in change. Yep, that's $5.25 per beer.
And then there were the shots. Busty waitresses, all gorgeous and all wearing revealing tank tops and shorts, roamed the establishment carrying trays of vial upon vial of various concoctions. One waitress had her routine down -- she would go up to a guy, take away his beer, stick the vial (bottom first) in her mouth (simulating a playtime activity popular between our last president and his interns) and have the guy take the shot by having him place his mouth on the other end, all without saying a word.
But the fun did not stop there. Then, she would stick a vial -- how can I put this delicately -- between her headlights, where it was nice and snug, before grabbing the guy's head and having him drink from the vial. Finally, she'd take another vial and put it partially down her short shorts, where she would invite the guy down to take the shot
Then she would smile at the guy and inform him the shots cost $15 total. That's $5 each. Not including the tip. And some guys would dumbly pay, with a gratuitous gratuity, and repeat the process all over again.
If you somehow managed to reject the waitress, you were then given a glare that implied you were soon going to receive a vial involuntarily shoved somewhere quite unpleasant.
I could go on and on, except that my editor would get pissed, so I will end this column with a brief summary of some other things I honestly witnessed on Bourbon Street during the few days I was in New Orleans:
-- A strip club that proudly boasted the fact that you can "wash the woman of your choice" inside.
-- People wearing T-shirts that would be banned in many places, including one that said "BLEEP YOU, YOU BLEEPING BLEEP," except that the word "bleep" was substituted with a word that rhymes with "shuck." However, my favorite T-shirt, worn by a short, fat guy pronounced: "I BEAT ANOREXIA."
-- A college-age guy sitting in the gutter of Bourbon Street, after a rain storm, ralphing like crazy. And as people walked by as if this was completely normal, a man snapped pictures of this frat boy's hurling episode while laughing uncontrollably. Either this photographer was a sadistic friend or a bystander who has a really vile fetish.
Whatever. Let's just say that because I am not a right-winger, I thoroughly enjoyed my trip, even if New Orleans smells like someone got it wet and then left it in the closet. I will go back again one day.
But not until I go T-shirt shopping.
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan who came back with a bag of beads from New Orleans without once exposing himself in public. Jimmy's column appears here Tuesdays, and a column archive may be viewed at jimmyboegle.com.