Roullez les Bonne Temps

As you may or may not know, I was in New Orleans this past weekend. As you may be shocked to discover, this was my first visit.

I ended up in Nawlins as part of a group celebrating my sister's 50th birthday. The whole shindig was arranged by my sister-in-law as a surprise. She was in the Big Easy on business, and convinced Sis Bliss to join her for the weekend. Little did Sis expect that when she reached O'Hare, she would be met by me and two couples from Indiana - where she used to live - all flying down with her. Or that another couple would be there when we landed. My sister is the gullible sort, so it was not difficult for her spouse to convince her that flying through Chicago would be the best way to go to Nawlins.

Having written it that way twice, let me assure you that I am not someone who really calls Nawlins Nawlins, except in jest. The closest I'll come is Norlins, and that's just to keep purists off my back. But "House of the Rising Sun" (or "House of the Rising Son," as our tour guide called it) clearly pronounces it with three syllables, even in the Leadbelly version. And rhymes New Orleans with blue jeans, for godsake. But folk who would never dream of calling the state in which the city is located Looziana or its neighbor Missourah insist that New Orleans is really pronounced Nawlins. 'Cause that's how the locals say it. Yeah, they also say gah-rone-tee. And people in Bridgeport call my city Chicahgo. And residents of the Big Apple call it The City. But that's not changing my mind.

I digress.

We flew down on United's new "no frills" carrier, Ted. I don't remember the last time I saw a frill on an airplane. The best thing I can say about Ted is that it's better than ATA. The seats are wide enough to wedge my oversized derriere into without a shoehorn, and I didn't need a seatbelt extender. Yes, I'm that big. Food, of course, is non-existent - a bag of minipretzels'll have to do ya. But if you can't manage a two hour flight without a snack, I don't know how you make it through the morning. "Entertainment" consists of NBC snippets on a flip down video monitor, but if you can't manage two hours without TV, I don't know how you make it through life. On the way down, we had the delight of a running commentary by a bored crew member trying to keep us and himself amused. I do not hold him directly responsible for the death of Rodney Dangerfield, but comedy is on thin ground. Or air, as the case may be. Apparently this in-flight shtick is something United has stolen from Southwest, whose slogan should be, "You are free to roam about the country … and kill yourself." The guy didn't end his routine by telling us to tip our waitress, but I'm sure that was an oversight.

Wow. "Shtick" is in Word's dictionary.

Our first night in le Grand Facile, one of the couples and I headed over to Bourbon Street. Not wishing to appear excessively touristy, I got some recommendations of places to go from the woman working the front desk. (Behind the desk. Get your mind out of the gutter.) When our cab came, the woman with me asked the driver to take us to Bourbon Street, but I, ever the sophisticate, said, "The Famous Door sounds like a good place to start."

"I'll take you to Canal and Bourbon," was his rejoinder.

In my naiveté, I imagined Bourbon Street was like Halsted Street or Fifth Avenue or the Rue Morgue. You don't just go there; you go somewhere, and from there, find your way to the rest of it. Little did I realize - especially on that first night - that it is more like Main Street USA at Disneyland/World. There are no cars on Bourbon Street; it is all but a pedestrian mall. Streets cross Bourbon, but driving them after 6 pm in an exercise in futility. Our cabbie essentially dropped us off at the beginning of it and left us to find our way to rack and ruin.

Which was easy.

Getting to Bourbon Street was the adventure. Our hotel - the lovely Marriott SpringHill Suites - is located in the warehouse/ gallery/theater district, not far from the southish end of the Riverwalk. The best way to get to Bourbon Street, apparently, is through a series of perilously narrow streets and alleys never made for this sort of traffic. New Orleans is one of those cities which has grown too big for its britches. There are a handful of what one would consider two lane streets, and even the occasional four lane superhighway, but most of the city is meant to accommodate knife grinders, mules and hearses. If they park at all, people park on the sidewalk, which is the only safe place. So off we went, tearing down access roads between warehouses intended to make Yankees quake.

On entering New Orleans, I was warned of the smell. Cedar Rapids, Iowa, is called the City of Five Smells, because of the various food processing plants there. They have New Orleans beat by two. Much of the time, you don't notice anything. Then an incredible stench of urine or vomit or excrement (generally, but not always, animal) will overtake you. Bourbon Street is a panoply of them all.

This part of the city has two main products, which are inherently linked: Booze and Sex. Booze is everywhere. Not just bars, though those of course, but traveling booze. If in some cities it is against the law to carry open liquor, on Bourbon Street it is against the law not to. Everyone has their Hurricane or Hand Grenade or at least 40 ouncer. I saw one guy with a bottle of Lite beer that was a gallon if it was a day. Pat O'Brian's seems to be the only bar which serves liquor in glass. More on that later. Saloons have minibars which face the street, just to serve drinks to pedestrians. Some wily entrepreneurs have set up in what seem to be hallways, just large enough for them and a stock a hooch. It is a street of conspicuous consumption.

We eventually made it to the Famous Door, where the first thing which greeted us was a barmaid in a short top and shorter shorts selling shots in test tubes. Only 2 bucks, so I had to buy three. "Sweet or strong?" It was early, so I chose sweet. She asked me if I was alone - catching on that my companions were together, but not doubting that we might have been a threesome - and when I said I was, she put the rounded end of the test tube in her own mouth, so that she could feed me the shot. In theory, I didn't have to grabs her ass as I was squatting down to take the liquor, but when in Rome. After I downed the shot she popped the test tube into the air, caught it and returned in to its holder. She then handed a shot to my female companion, who she instructed to take the shot into her mouth, but not swallow, so that she could feed it to her husband. The final shot she tucked into the waist of his pants, whence his wife was instructed to drink it.

This was our first drink on Bourbon Street. And a sign of how intricately linked Booze and Sex are on that thoroughfare.

Everyone on Bourbon Street is looking to get laid. Or looking to convince others they can get laid. No - they will get laid. And yet, for all that sexual energy, it is a place of great camaraderie. Oh sure, women are objectified in every square inch of the place, but women there revel in their objectification in a way they wouldn't be willing to do in a more "sophisticated" setting. Out on the street, they're baring their breasts for fifty cents in cheap beads, and inside they're shaking what their mommas gave them. They have the power, should they choose to recognize and exploit it. Some of them wear brides' veils with their bustiers and 3 inch spikes, mocking patrimony and their own desires. Not that they're all in on the joke. There's plenty of desperate living going on. But they can be as sexual as they want to be, safe in the knowledge that there's a bigger whore in the next bar down.

At the same time, I've never seen so many feminized men in all my life. Not fags and drag queens - straight men. Granted, the booze has a lot to do with it. But a lot of the fronts are down. I'm sure there's plenty of aggression out there somewhere, but I didn't see it. Everyone's just looking to have a good time. Some of that good time involves making out with strangers. And crouching on its left shoulder is sexual desperation. But in the meantime they're happy to be with other men and women and groups and girlfriends and yes, even spouses, just laughing and singing and throwing beads for titties. Carousing. In the way men of purpose rarely do.

But then, New Orleans isn't about men of purpose. It's about white - and black - trash. And mulattos and quadroons and octoroons and I don't know what all. New Orleans has such a history of people acting shamefully, that now that's the only way they know how to act. Or care to. In touring the French Quarter the next day, we saw beautifully maintained historic properties next to ramshackle dwellings ready to collapse. Work ethic is not in its blood. And out on Bourbon Street, folks are acting the way they wouldn't in front of their mother. That's what they came for. We ended up at the Cat's Meow, a sort of sing-along karaoke bar, where I learned first hand why girls shouldn't try to sing Madonna songs. And outside the window, the girls weren't the only ones showing their business for beads. By this time it was after 2, and it seemed like barely midnight. We left, not because we were so drunk (we weren't), but because we had to be up for the aforementioned French Quarter tour scheduled for 10 the next morning.

On the way back to the hotel, I asked the cab driver when the bars close. "When everyone goes home," he replied.