Creole My My, Creole Hell Yes

Last weekend was Jack Serpentine's bachelor party, held in New Orleans. As we all know, what happens in New Orleans drowns in New Orleans. But not the tales from this adventure!

On Friday night, some of us trekked to renowned Bourbon Street to drink renowned and rum-laden Hurricanes.


Later, Gav sampled another local bad idea, the grain-alcohol-laden Hand Grenade.


Later, Al told us about the eastward (?) progression of Bourbon Street. "In a couple of blocks, it's going to get really gay, and then it's going to get really dangerous." He marched us on, past the police car parked next to a group of college kids. "Be careful man! We just got mugged down there!" a young man said to me in his pathetic southern drawl. We pushed on, because Al wanted to show us a bar off the beaten path.

We did not make it to that bar. ...Because it was closed! I think! It's kind of a blur! But we did venture in a different bar, where a local man took off his overshirt before taking on Gav in foosball. Gav responded by taking off his overshirt and losing -- that local was crazy good at foosball. The best I've ever seen.


Then our group walked home.

The following night, largely identical things happened, until Gav suggested listening to a band. The bar was called Sing Sing, and the guitarist wore a Naval costume of some sort.

But it was cool, because he could really shred Hendrix-style! And the rest of the cover band was good, too! And Gav kept buying shots, so we got pretty into it! Fist pump!



During the fifteen-minute performance of "Purple Rain", this nonsense happened:



There was a lot of love in the room. We all became fast friends, and ten years from now we're all going to meet up at that very bar and reminisce, which I just spelled correctly on my first try, no big deal.


Mr. Serpentine wanted to have a nightcap with Gav and I before we went back to the hotel, so we wandered into one of Bourbon Street's rare daiquiri shoppes sometime after 4. A certain someone proceeded to order three 36-ounce frozen drinks. "What kind?" the barkeep asked. "The Best One," a certain someone replied. She gave us some formula designed to taste like astronaut Tang. I had a dozen sips; I think I drank the most. Like all transactions in the Big Easy, it was money well spent.

The next morning/lunchtime, I looked like this:


Bam.