July 22, 2004
The New Orleans Diary, Day I
filed under: Idle Chatter
So last weekend Dan and I went to New Orleans for his bachelor party. It was actually a dual bachelor party, since Dan's cousin Ronald is getting married in a few weeks. Ronald's brother Claudio (who lives down there) hosted and did most of the planning.
Let me get this out of the way: I can think of no better place to hold an out-of-town bachelor party than New Orleans. Actually, I'm hard pressed to think of a city that outstrips New Orleans as a place to visit. It really does have something for everyone.
Thanks to a last minute schedule change, we flew down on Friday, via JetBlue (thank god for $79 one-way tickets). We failed to inform American Airlines that we would be skipping our outward-bound flight Thursday. More on this later.
On the flight, we get an early start to the mayhem when I return from the lav to find that Dan has ordered us both Jack'n'Gingers. It's 8:45 a.m., and we're ready to start getting our drink on. We watch Bachelor Party on my portable DVD player which we enjoy immoderately, though that may be the Jack Daniels talking.
You know you're travelling with someone who works in TV when their first action, upon landing in a new city, is to shoot some B-roll of the plane you just flew in.
We make our way towards the baggage claim, where unbeknownst to Dan a limo is waiting. The airport looks just like every other smallish airport in the country. They would like to welcome us to New Orleans and encourage us not to eat frozen fish.
Our driver, Kenneth, is as southernly hospitable as we could've hoped for this, Dan's first trip to the South.
The limo (from the remarkably friendly, if seedily-named "A Confidential Transportation" - when's the last time someone called you after you'd already booked something to REDUCE the price they quoted?) is really quite nice - business-y rather than prom-y.
The famous humidity makes itself felt immediately on our exit from the airport, fogging up my camera - notice the glow around Kenneth's shirt in this shot.
And, of course, in the limo, there's more bourbon to be had.
We make our way into town, with me chattering away to prove how well I know my way around. "So," I say, "this is the Central Business District, yes?" or "Ah-ha, Canal Street, that means we're crossing over into the French Quarter..." which Dan politely ignores and Kenneth greets with a warm "Yassir..."
Eventually I shut up long enough to notice that the French Quarter looks, on Chartres Street at least, just like SoHo but shorter.
We are supposed to be staying at the W French Quarter, where Claudio has reserved rooms for everyone at a very friendly rate.
Unfortunately our reception, on arrival, is less than friendly - we are asked quite frostily to provide our "Hot Rate Letter" to prove that we are deserving of the lower rate. After much phone time in the cramped but stylish lobby, we discover that there's a mix up in the rooms, and that only two have actually been reserved, for eight guys.
Dan announces to nobody in particular that "we're not in college anymore" and we book a suite at the Iberville, which turns out to be lovely (their website).
We take a chance to walk around the Quarter a bit and are pleased to find the smut nicely peppered with Southern politesse:
Claudio has arranged massages for everyone, somewhere out in the suburbs. He spends all day driving guys back and forth, despite not having slept much the night before.
Dan and I spend a long time in the lobby of the massage parlor trying to figure out whether to expect massages or "massages." It turns out to be the innocent kind and they're lovely.
I promptly fall fast asleep during mine.
It's very disconcerting to wake up face down in a dark room in a strange town when you've already been drinking. It's beyond disconcerting to realize that you only woke up because, while asleep, you farted at the massage girl. She's too polite to say anything and I discover that it's possible to blush over every square inch of your body.
On the way out I tip her well.
We have dinner at Mr. B's Bistro in the Quarter, which looks generic/classy but which turns out to be really excellent.
I mentioned briefly in an earlier post that New Orleans is a paradise of strip clubs. We had spotted the Gold Club on our way to the restaurant, and learned to our delight that it would be our first stop. It was happy hour, so our admission was free and we received several drink tickets - I think Claudio "knew someone."
Actually, pretty much everywhere we went, Claudio "knew someone." He's a handy fella to have in your corner.
There are four things make the upscale strip joints in New Orleans better than their New York counterparts:
1: The dancers don't wander around soliciting lap dances. This was disconcerting at first, because you have to be a bit more forward to get a dance, but makes for a much more relaxing visit since you're not constantly fending off the hard-sell.2: The dancers are prettier. There's also way less silicone which is refreshing.
3: Lap dances are $20, as they are anywhere. I was confused as to why I didn't see anyone getting any. Turns out that upstairs is a beehive of alcoves, where for $40 you get a dance where your hands don't have to stay glued to your chair. Ah-ha.
4: The cocktail waitresses (aggressively off-limits in most NY clubs) also give dances upstairs. For some reason, this feels slightly taboo and is therefor good fun. Our waitress looks like a Suicide Girl (link not work safe) and not like a stripper at all, but gives a heck of a dance. Nice.
At the Gold Club, Claudio and I as best men arrange for the requisite onstage humiliation of Ronald and Dan. One at a time, they're dragged onstage and assaulted by four strippers, stripped to their underwear, beaten with their belts, ridden around like ponies on their hands and knees, and tied to the pole. They also have champagne poured down their throats by all four girls, after a bawdy toast that ends "we've still got the boxes that our cherries came in" or words to that effect.
Dan's public humiliation gets the best of me, and in spite of clear rules against it I slip my camera phone out of my pocket and try to sneak a shot.
All I can say is, those bouncers must be keen students of human nature, because as soon as my teeny tiny camera phone reaches my lap, hidden under one hand, I feel a grip on my shoulder.
"Sir, can I have that phone." It's not a question.
I start to try to explain that I didn't take a picture and will put it away.
"SircanIhavethatphoneNOW."
Shamed, I hand over my phone. The bouncer informs me I can retrieve it on the way out, and even brings me a claim ticket.
They are SO POLITE down south!
Eventually we tear ourselves away from the Gold Club, and wander out to conquer Bourbon Street. In this picture you can see Dan, either trying to look tough or trying not to fall down:
Next stop is the Crazy Horse, where we have a two hour party reserved on their balcony overlooking Bourbon:
Theoretically, even during non-Mardi Gras you can get flashed in exchange for beads. In practice, our group isn't big or obnoxious enough to get attention, especially since we're pretty high up. The guys across the way on the balcony at the Hustler Barely Legal Club are lower and drunker, and they get the few boobies brave enough to come out.
So we mostly just people watch, hooting sporadically.
I am astounded that, after midnight on a Friday, on BOURBON STREET, it is still possible to get a dirty look for catcalling. It seems to me that copping an attitude in that context is like going to Pebble Beach and bitching that everyone is swinging sticks.
Handily, it turns out that when your beads aren't being used to entice nudity, they can be used to aerially bombard those who annoy you as they pass below.
At 2 a.m., when our time is up at the Crazy Horse, we wander Bourbon Street soggily, mostly following this guy who is desperately trying to get someone to fight him. He keeps walking into people and then hollering at them, stripping off his shirt and showing them his abs and tattoos.
"What. What. What." he goes, as his newest victim looks around nervously to see how much back up the guy has. "What muthafuggah? You want some?" Sometimes he gets creative, telling one guy "You see this shirt? This shirt is worth more than YOUR LIFE!"
Here he is showing his abs to the guy in the blue t-shirt.
He repeats the bump-and-shout process at least six times in ten minutes, reaching the end of the busy part of Bourbon only to turn around and plow right back through, looking for more guys to bump into. At one point, he and his friends try to chase down a pickup truck, throwing trash at it.
Hey, everybody has their own kind of fun.
But nobody takes him up on it, which is probably a pretty good thing for him since he's paying way more attention to how much he likes himself than to where someone's fist might come from.
Some time around 2:30, those of us who are still wandering suddenly stop in the middle of Bourbon Street, as if responding to a silent cue. "Yep," says Julio, speaking what's on all of our minds, "that's it."
So we all go back to our hotels, looking maybe a bit ragged, a bit dumpy, and a little the worse for wear.
More to come.