what's so easy about the big easy?

So I've been back for two weeks, and I've spent the entire time working, sleeping, drinking, and trying to figure out what I'm still doing in Philly.

Interesting. The last time I was in New Orleans, I spent my first week back working, sleeping, drinking, and trying to figure out what the hell I was doing still at the Four Seasons.

Well, it took me a year to get out of the Four Seasons, so I figure it will take me a full year to get out of Philly. We'll see.

In the meantime...what the hell is it about that city that makes me doubt everything about my life????

New Orleans. To pretend you understand it is foolish. Anyone who would believe you was never there. Anyone who was there would argue with you no matter what you said.

The city is everything to everyone. It's fantastic, it's foreign, it's dangerous, it's reckless, it's irresponsible, it's determined, it's comfortable, it's decadent, it's poor, it's crazy, it's insanely sane.

How in the hell do you get a grasp on this city?

Well, I'm going to try.

I'll start with my first trip there. It was October of last year, and I was there for my friends Matt and Tabby's wedding. I was, of all insane things, the best man. I still can't figure that one out, but at least I paid for their ceremony and gave a great speech. I did next to nothing else, but I did that.

Because of the wedding, I didn't really have a lot of time to wander. My first free day, I was drifting along Decatur street with some friends. I decided to wander away from the shops they were going to and ended up in a bar called the Hideout. It was dark, it had a pool table, and it was cheap. I loved it. Within fifteen minutes the bartender had asked me if I needed a place to stay and if I wanted to go to a party the next night. I couldn't believe any of it. In fact, I brushed her off and left as soon as I finished my beer.

That night, the entire wedding party ended up going out. We started at D.B.A.'s, drinking scotch and rye. From there we wandered up to Bourbon Street.We ended up in Patty O'Brien's for one hurricane, feeling as if it was a rite of passage. I had never quite seen such chaos. I remember telling Dave, "Get me out of this hell before I start to like it."

He wasn't fast enough. By the time we wandered down to the blacksmith shop, I was far too distracted to hang out with everyone. While the rest of the party sat outside in the muggy night, I sat at the piano, listening to the piano man and watching some secretary flash one of the greatest sets of breasts I've ever seen to her friends. At that point, I knew I needed to wander. I told everyone that I'd meet them at the Hideout in two hours, and then I walked the gauntlet of Bourbon Street.

Over the next five blocks, I had a lovely young woman kiss me because she liked the way I was dressed, I ran into three guys from Philly who bought me shots of tequila, I bought a round of drinks for a terrified bridal party in Monoghan's, and saw countless exposed breasts and countless fights. In fact, I was standing outside of the Cat's Meow, watching some girl put on quite a show, when I thought the night was going to get real ugly. I was punched in the back by a set of knuckles that hit me square between the shoulder blades. I admit, I panicked. Suddenly, I was convinced that I was going to get my ass kicked. All I could think was that there were three guys behind me ready to kick the crap out of the guy in the suit. I wished that I had never left the
group I was there with.

In fact, I couldn't have been farther from the truth. Apparently, a fight broke out behind me, but I was too distracted to notice. One guy swung at the other guy and missed, hitting me. When I turned around to meet my maker, I saw two guys so terrified that I nearly laughed. They both apologized and then ran off in different directions. I decided that I had spent enough time on Bourbon Street.

I meet up with everyone at the Hideout in the back room, shooting pool. I remember that there were four people, two guys and two girls, sitting on the sofa or hanging around the table, but with no interest in playing. Sure enough, as soon as we all left the table and went to the bar, I caught them all in various positions, to quote Leonard Cohen.

I remember the one girl, going down on one of the guys, looking up at me as I wandered to the men's room, and giggling into the cock that was in her mouth.

Next we went to the Abbey, where I tried to not drink so I could make sure that everyone else got back to the hotel okay. That lasted until 5 a.m., when Allie (I think), decided that I needed to do shots of Jameson with her. I remember putting everyone else in taxis, doing one more shot with her, and then waking up in my hotel room. In the morning, there was a moment when I thought that she was evil, but it was just a moment, and it passed. She wasn't evil, she just worked in New Orleans, I decided. Part of me was disappointed that I couldn't hang.

The next day, Sunday, I met some of the group for lunch at Angeli's on Decatur. My food was inedible, mainly because I was so amazingly hungover, but I had a great view of the street. As I watched everyone wander past, there was one girl in a black mini-skirt who kept walking back and forth with her boyfriend. As I watched, a car pulled up, and she leaned into the passenger window to talk to the driver. In time, she gave her beer to her boyfriend to hold for her, got into the car, and I saw things that belonged in a porno. All the while, her boyfriend watched and waited with her beer in hand. I remember at that moment thinking, where the hell am I? Later that day I was at the Apple Barrel in Marigny, sitting with Mike, Dave and Mike's girlfriend at the time (now wife), and I mentioned all of these things, and also the party that the bartender invited me to on that first night. Mike informed me that it was the Decadence party, and that I should have gone. For the life of me, I couldn't imagine what they considered decadent in New Orleans.

There was something else about that bar, now that I think about it...I had Vickie (the bartender, and Mike's girlfriend) call me a cab, and it never showed. She called another, and that never showed. While I waited, both Mike and Vickie just kept saying to me, "Forget it, just stay here and drink with us..." When I politely refused, Mike gave me a lift back to the hotel. I kept thinking about those two things - how they just wanted me to stay, and how he was willing to aid in my escape.

Sure enough, ten hours later, Dave was still there, refusing to leave.

When I arrived back in Philadelphia, I felt more than a little lost. It took me a few weeks to realize what was bothering me, but once I realized it, I couldn't shake it. I realized that since I dropped out of college, I had been devoting myself to fancy hotels and their god-awful guests. Waking up at 5 a.m. after working until midnight. Smiling as they cursed at me, and running for them while they yelled at me. I realized that, despite my steadfast opinion otherwise, a lack of planning on their part DID create an emergency on my part. I was a child as far as both the guests and management were concerned. I was an idiot, a simpleton, and I realized that I would never be anything else as long as I stayed there.

It took my a while, but I did finally leave my job. Then, two months later, I was back in New Orleans. I realize, that in the day before I flew there, I couldn't wait to be there. But my anticipation was twofold. Part of me was infatuated with the madness that I saw a year ago, and part of me was terrified of it at the same time. I remember thinking between Charlotte and New Orleans, "Can it be like that all the time? If so, what in God's name can I offer this town?" I remembered that when I left N.O. after my first trip, I decided that I would go back once a year. Flying in, I decided that if it was as crazy as it was the last time I was there, I may not go back again.

Thankfully, it wasn't insane. In fact, it was noticeably sane. I liked that. It broke the mystique. Suddenly, New Orleans was just another city where I knew people and I had a good time.

I realized other things about New Orleans, as well. I realized that the city is a marketing menace. Everything is for sale in New Orleans, and everything has a hook. I also realized that the marketing works on everyone who visits, including myself. It's as if you become faced with a desperate need to have something to remind you of a place you don't remember. You may not recall being at Molly's, but you have an engraved zippo to tell you that you were there. You may not know what time you left the Abbey, but the official boxer shorts that you're wearing tell you that it was pretty late,

The other aspect of New Orleans that finally made sense to me was Bourbon Street. It was easy for me to understand why people who live there would never set foot on that strip of debauchery. What was more challenging for me was figuring out why everyone else went there.

Then it hit me. As I watched the secretaries and the conventioneers flash and fondle and drink non-stop, I realized how safe they felt. I realized that while I felt slightly scared on Bourbon for looking different, this was, for all these visitors, a safe haven. Not only were they more likely to run into someone from their home state of Texas or Tennessee or wherever, they were in an environment that brought them back to a happy, comfortable place. I realized that, no matter whether they were 25 or 55, most of these people wandering drunkenly and looking for tits were either in college, just out of college, or had been working every day since graduation. Bourbon Street put them back in their favorite place - that fraternity party where anything could happen, where that girl across the room might be willing to make out, or at least might flash everyone after too many beers...

Which brings up another point about Bourbon Street...flashing. In all honesty, as I wandered up and down the strip while my friends rested, I saw more 40 or 50 year olds flash their boobies than I saw 20 year olds. And you know what, it was fine. They were cheered on as if they were twenty. I saw (trust me, I tried to look away, but my timing was off) a woman more obese than Roseanne Barr in her bad days flash, and everyone cheered for her. That was when I realized - there's no judgment in New Orleans, there is only support. While it's unfortunate that there are so many people who have no concept of New Orleans aside from Bourbon Street, I can understand why they don't drift away from there. If they were to wander into Molly's at 3 a.m., they'd be made fun of by everyone there, including me.

Or would they? That lack of judgment, that acceptance, seemed to permeate everything while I was there. But I wondered, is that good or bad?

The worst drunk from Portland or St. Louis or Boston can move to New Orleans, and they're no longer horrible drunks, they're just characters. You realize that freedom can be a bit stifling.

I could never live in that town, although I can't wait to go back. That acceptance that I felt while I was there, I couldn't extend that myself. I've realized that from bartending. I do look down upon those customers who sit there from opening until close. I do mock those who can barely walk out the door.

Not that it's just about drinking...

Granted, for the tourists, the conventioneers, the visitor, drinking easily becomes the primary activity in New Orleans. The ability to walk the streets, beer in hand, quickly becomes not an option, but a necessity. The encouragement and freedom to start drinking at breakfast easily overwhelms any sense of responsibility one might have. You're on vacation, after all. Recovery is something that happens once one gets home, not while you're still in New Orleans. The only drawback is hoping that nothing you do gets back to the office once your home...

My last night in New Orleans this past trip was pretty low key. I sent my friends Matt and Tabby off to the airport, Papaya was asleep, and I sat at Wendy's bar at MRB's drinking beer and watching her and her boyfriend argue. When the time was right, I called a taxi, and Wendy and I shared an awkward kiss goodnight. I fear that we will only have awkward kisses. That's a shame. but that might be how it is.

My taxi driver to the airport was a beautiful blonde, just a couple of years older than me. She was a teacher once, but she loved driving a cab.

She was that one last reminder, that one last example that somewhere in the world, there's a city where it doesn't matter what you do, or how much you make. Somewhere out there, you can just be there, with no unnecessary bullshit. Somewhere out there, there's a town where people are just happy to see you, no questions asked.

I couldn't live there, but it's nice to know that it exists.

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