The Jazzfest Chronicles - a prologue

Jazzfest Chronicles - A Prologue

    In Jitterbug Perfume, Tom Robbins wrote the following tidbit of wisdom about New Orleans.  At the time of reading, I thought it was just a clever bit of prose, but now I know better.  This prologue is merely to start setting the tone.   Five days of creole indulgence and gluttony will be chronicled over the course of this week.  Day 1 is forthcoming...  

    "The moment you land in New Orleans, something wet and dark leaps on you and starts humping you like a swamp dog in heat, and the only way to get that aspect of New Orleans off you is to eat it off.  That means beignets and crawfish bisque and jambalaya, it means shrimp remoulade, pecan pie, and red beans with rice, it means elegant pompano au papillote, funky file z'herbes, and raw oysters by the dozen, it mean grillades for breakfast, a po'boy with chowchow at bedtime, and tubs of gumbo in between.  It is not unusual for a visitor to the city to gain fifteen pounds in a week - yet the alternative is a whole lot worse.  If you don't eat day and night, if you don't constantly funnel the indigenous flavors into your bloodstream, then the mystery beast will go right on humping you, and you will feel its sordid presence rubbing against you long after you have left town.  In fact, like any sex offender, it can leave permanent psychological scars".  -Tom Robbins, 'Jitterbug Perfume'

The Jazzfest Chronicles - Day 1

Jazzfest Chronicles - Day 2

    As I started my Day 1 notes, I was sitting in a Karaoke bar called the Cat's Meow.  Sure, I know, a karaoke bar?  How douche-bag is that?  Except that this one had 3 for 1 drinks...  That was the bait that lured us in.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.  Let me back up a few hours... we'll get back to the Cat's Meow later.  

    Wednesday morning, as early mornings go, was a smashing success.  Up before 6:00, loaded with caffeine by 6:10, picked up RA and ET (sister and brother-in-law, for those not in the know) by 6:45, and out of Austin before 7:00 a.m.  Three easy hours later we walked into Houston's Hobby airport, and one hour later we flew out of it.  A glorious stack of free drink tickets were on hand to nurse us through the 50 minute jaunt to our shadowy destination.   

    It's important to understand that the drinks were needed.., perhaps even critical.  This was the virgin visit for three of us, and getting our cherries popped was not going to be a sober experience.  We intended to have our way with New Orleans, but we harbored no illusions that New Orleans was going to have its way with us as well.  The drinks were the foreplay.  

    A quick note about New Orleans cab drivers... they're all very cool, friendly, and helpful, but if you ever find yourself in the cab of an old creole lady who's lived there her whole life, do NOT use the term "NOLA"... you will be firmly rebuked and corrected, and several rounds of 3-for-1 drinks will be required to dilute the tones of scorn and derision that are heaped upon your ignorant head.  

    Harrah's was the right place to stay.  It's right on the river, and is close enough to most places you'll want to go that walking is always an option.  The tricky part about the hotel is smuggling an extra two people into your room for four nights.  When you insist on two queen beds, they ask intrusive questions.. such as if you'll have anyone joining you.  At an extra $80 a night for a shared room, the obvious answer is, "no, nobody will be staying with us".  However, the elevators are directly in front of the check-in counter, so sustained efforts at subterfuge will be required to pull this off and not get caught.  I won't labor on this point, but it may come up again later.  By mid-afternoon, that unique feeling of 'vacation decompression' was already in full swing.  Granted, it could be argued that I've been decompressing for a month now, but it's different when you get out of town.  Plus, if my last four weeks of mild and gradual decompression were compared to say.. a Vicodin, then the kind that hit us in the French Quarter must surely be on a par with Heroin.  

    It was a whirlwind afternoon.  Following the river a few miles from Harrahs to the French Flea Market, we stopped in everywhere that looked worthwhile.  Beignets at Cafe du Monde.  Beers and Hurricanes from corner bars.  Finally, when we ran out of road, a left turn toward the French Quarter.  

    Several blocks down, there was that famous sign... "Bourbon Street".  The street didn't look like what I expected, but we were down at its nether end.  No neon lights or signs with dancing crawfish here, just old worn buildings with hole-in-the wall bars... it was perfect.  Two beers and two bars later, we passed through a section I can only refer to as the "Rainbow District".... this is a four block segment of Bourbon Street that has rainbow flags hanging over every bar, and gay pride disco dolls in the windows of head shops.   

    Finally, we found ourselves standing beneath the awning of The Cat's Meow.  Someone had told us about it, but we were skeptical of a late afternoon karaoke bar visit until we zeroed in on the 3-for-1 drinks.  One of us was still smarting from the "NOLA" rebuke, so it seemed the right time to actually just sit for awhile and soak in the local entertainment while imbibing heavily.  A moment had come that required our attention.  Inebriation was knocking loudly at the door, demanding to be let in.  

    My notes from the Cat's Meow are blurry, though not as blurry as the pictures.  Here's what I can make out (written with tabasco sauce on a cocktail napkin):  ET sang 'Ice Ice Baby'... he might have tanked it, but the ladies seemed to love it.  I sang 'Just a Gigolo'... which I'm quite sure I rocked (my notes actually say "I rocked out with my cock out").  RA and Lisa put on the winning performance of 'Baby Got Back'.. my sister spanked my wife's ass... apparently we have video of this... I'm sure it'll end up on YouTube. Beyond that, I can't recall everything, except that we did make it out in time to return to Harrah's, get changed, and make it to Emeril's for a dinner reservation.  (Quick sidebar... the food at Emeril's was excellent, and the 2006 Etude Pinot Noir is very good, and I'm sure it will only get better).  

    We made it back to Harrah's in the incipient stages of our first collective food coma, and while there may have been a quick stop at a slot machine on the way, it was a good night's sleep that beckoned.... at least for 3 of us.  Let me recap briefly the relative order of drinks throughout the day:  1) beer, 2) Hurricane, 3)beer, 4)possibly tequila, 5)wine, 6)possibly more beer (somewhere in there may have been a Bloody Mary and a Screwdriver, as well). This leads to an observation I've made once before in Las Vegas, which is that when you share a hotel room with another couple, you find that you learn a lot about them that you might not otherwise have.  I won't say who spent half the night puking... and I won't say who should never be allowed to sleep on their back after drinking, due to a volume of snoring that is comparable to a chainsaw (minimal exaggeration, there), but suffice it to say that neither of those individuals was me.  That's the shortest version of Day 1 that I can manage, but it hits most of the high points. 

~ZMF

The Jazzfest Chronicles - Day 2

Jazzfest Chronicles - Day 2

    I awoke the second morning with a familiar dull achy pressure in my skull.  The seductive sort of quasi-hangover that invites you to suppress it quickly by consuming more alcohol... probably mixed with some variety of nutrient, such as juice or a cigarette. That would be the breakfast of champions in a place like this, but instead I allowed myself to be suckered into a trip to the gym on the 3rd floor; "let's go sweat it out!", said my brother in law.  My response should have been "Go shit in your hat", but I gave it a 10 minute attempt, which was the last I would see of a gym on this trip. 

    Around 10:00 a.m. the puker was continuing to toss and groan in bed while apparently trying to marshall the forces of her decimated chi, but that wet dark swamp dog was humping the rest of us and we needed to eat.  Lisa was our compass that morning, and soul food was magnetic north.   There's a place called Mother's, and I suspect that even the smallest and healthiest of their dishes exceeds 2500 calories, and you have to stand in line for at least 20-30 minutes to place your order.  My prize at the end of this wait was the Ferdie; a Po'Boy stacked with ham and roast beef and debris (I'll define "debris" later), served in a bowl because the bottom piece of bread is sitting in a quarter inch of grease (they call it Au-Jus, but it's grease)..  you can tell when your chest aches and your stomach clenches.   

    So, one Ferdie, one Bloody Mary, and one cigarette later, the swamp dog was off us for awhile.  Back at the room, the puker had made a pretty miraculous turnaround, but there was no question that any of us were yet ready to walk anywhere, so we found the nearest street-car and spent an hour and a half riding around the city. It's a good way to see lots of the different districts, while allowing the final vestige of the previous night to fade away. 

    By the time we were back at the hotel the swamp dog was humping again.  Gumbo was in order... and beer.  Then back to the room to quaff some of the bottle of rum that my ever-so-foresightful brother-in-law had been wise enough to bring along (*note - a free .750 bottle of rum is an ideal augmentation to a trip like this).  

    Finally it was time to head to Jazzfest.  Getting a cab as no problem, and while the flat rates they use during special events certainly err in their favor, it was still a pretty cheap ride.  Then a quick push past the gauntlet of water sellers from the drop-off point to the main gate, and we were in! The fairgrounds were large and accommodating, and the crowds were minimal (Thursday is the day that the locals all go to the fest, and most of the tourists haven't made it in yet, which made us cool like locals, not douchebags like the tourists). An easy 200 food stands made up 3 large food courts, and it only took one trip past them before the eating frenzy began:  Fried green tomatoes, crawfish beignets, ribs, sweet potato pies, crawfish po'boys; we couldn't stop.  All of this in a 2 hour period leading up to Ben Harper, at which point we could no longer even move.  All we could do was sit and let our bodies try to deal with the full frontal assault we had waged.  Daquiris, Hurricanes, and beer helped wash it all down, but the fact was we had laid the base of a gastrointestinal cement block that would take days, if not weeks, to work its way out. A few friendly gents next to us must have sensed our physical discomfort, and offered to help by passing a joint our way every few minutes. I won't speak of anyone else's activities, but I will say that I, for one, felt the situation demanded good manners.  10 minutes later, not surprisingly, the physical discomfort had subsided greatly, but my chair and I kept falling over backwards.   

    Back at the hotel; a quick shower, another nip at the rum bottle, another beer at the bar, and off to Bourbon Street again... but this time for the nighttime experience.  In the real world, I could have gone 3 more days without eating, but based on numerous recommendations, we made our way to Acme Oyster house.  Sadly, the line was over half an hour long, and the thought of raw oysters had the swamp dog sniffing around again, so we went around the corner to the Redfish Grille.  A dozen raw oysters, a dozen barbecue oysters, another bowl of gumbo, and finally a Double-Chocolate Bread Pudding, ala mode, with extra chocolate syrup and white chocolate syrup poured on top.  The food coma was coming... I could feel it.  We had to start walking, and drinking.   Two blocks down, another Hurricane.  Another two blocks down, a Hand Granade (allegedly the "strongest drink in New Orleans", but if that's true then there are a lot of pussies in the New Orleans bar industry).  Two more blocks down, and we walked into Pat O's (again, per recommendation), but we just couldn't handle another Hurricane right then, so another couple of blocks down and we found ourselves back at the Cat's Meow... ... which is where I finally blew chunks. It's important to state, here, that nobody vomits in public as discreetly as I do.  Just ask anyone who's gone to Vegas with me.  And this wasn't a 'too much drinking' puking, either.  It was a 'way too much stomach distention - gotta get some fucking food out of my body' puke.  It did the trick, I was right as rain and ready for more.  A lot of blurriness after that, to be honest, and that's the end of my notes for the day.  I'm not sure when we got back to the hotel, or how we snuck all four of us past the front desk by elevators, but we made it.  A fine day indeed.

~ZMF

The Jazzfest Chronicles - Day 3

Jazzfest Chronicles - Day 3

    It should be clear from the last two day's journal entries that New Orleans is, for lack of a better term, a gastronomical fucking fantasia.  Unfortunately there is a flipside to that coin, and by Friday morning I could feel it all too well.  The cement like mixture that had started with beignets and alcohol had turned into an intestinal traffic jam.  Gridlock had occurred.  I could feel a small Volkswagon Beetle growing inside me, and it was clearly not going anywhere anytime soon.  It was bulletproof against the standard weapons of caffeine and nicotine, so there seemed nothing to do but wait it out. The only benefit of this was that the constant consumption of food seemed to help moderate the equally massive intake of alcohol.  As the food and grease absorbed all that booze, the result was something along the lines of an internal time-release alcohol drip.  It is to this that I attribute the miracle that I never had a real hangover, but it's also why I would need several days to dry out once we departed.  

    I lay in bed Friday morning, pondering these thoughts.  Wondering whether New Orleans was 'The Big Easy' because everyone was packed with alcohol-soaked-fatty-foods that ensured they always had a buzz simmering.  It must be hard to get too wound up if you live like that, and from what we'd seen in the city thus far, there was no other way to live because there was nothing else to do.   Fortunately, the swamp dog was nowhere to be felt that morning, and I was able to quietly enjoy a tall latte while RA and ET went to the hotel gym to "sweat it out!".  Fools, I thought.... nobody can sweat it out here.  That alcohol was in our bones.  

    Mid morning we set out to search for worthwhile souvenirs.  The shellacked alligator heads and cheap Mardi-Gras masks had ceased to be interesting once it became clear that they could be purchased in bulk at any corner store.  As our morning wore on, our search somehow lead us back to the Acme Oyster house... with only a minimal line this time.  That quickly, the swamp dog was on all of us again.  A quick look through the window at a bar full of patrons eating stacks of freshly shucked oysters, and we had to have some.  Of course, it didn't stop there.  Oysters, more oysters, and finally to top it off.... a softshell crab po'boy.  This sandwich was freaking ridiculous... a full sized softshell crab, fried, and laid atop a sandwich roll half it's size.  There was no way I could leave town without saying I had tried that.  

    Back to the souvenir hunt and walking the long streets of the French Quarter.  Behind Jackson's Square, we hit the Tabasco Shop, and there I nearly collided with Lawrence Fishburne.  Such a familiar face I almost clapped on the shoulder with a "hey man", before I remembered that we don't actually know each other.  Not being one to hassle celebrities, I gave him the perfunctory nod and stepped around him, only to catch a snippet of the conversation he was having with his wife.  "I KNOW what I'm looking for...", he was saying as they exited the shop.  I could hear tones of vexation in his voice.  Nice to know that certain dynamics with a wife are universal.  

    Finally back to the hotel, then off to Jazzfest.  We made the rounds of all the stages this time.  Nitty Gritty Dirt Band; Doc Watson; Julian Marley (note - it was at Julian Marley that we were offered pot for the second day in a row.  Our karma must have been rocking, but I didn't think I could fall on the sword for the cool points of the team a second time... or could I?).  We ran into some guy wearing a short bright yellow skirt... the NOLA version of Leslie?  More music, more food (mmmm... crawfish meatpies), lemonade heavily spiked with the rum that ET had smuggled in.  Finally one of those perfect relaxed moments under the sun in the cool breeze when the simple yet profound words were uttered by RA, "I'm all about this fucking festival!".  Yes indeed.  On the way back, Lisa had her drunk on-like-donkey-kong and the chatterbox mode was turned all the way up (anyone reading this knows what I'm talking about).  Two guys in the cab with us bailed out halfway to their destinations... one of them muttered the parting words, "get me the hell out of this cab".  Good work Lisa, we don't like sharing our cab with douche-bags that can't hang.  

    As evening set on, it was back into the world for a final throwdown.  We still had another day, but there was a collective sense that we wouldn't be able to do a fourth night out.  So, from the Market Cafe through the Quarter, we hit it all.  Friday night on Bourbon Street was what we expected Bourbon Street to be like.  Masses of people.  Bead throwers on balconies. Ladies flashing their tits, just hoping for one of those little free strings of plastic balls.  We ended up at the Cat's Meow again, and near the bathroom we encountered some poor schmuck who was doing a strange crab-like shuffle from bar to bar looking for a bathroom with toilet paper... apparently he had taken a shit 3 bars down, but hadn't checked for the TP before doing so.... bummer.  Eventually we made it back to Harrah's.  How? I'm not sure, but we did.  The fuzzy memories of the late night were similar to those of the night before.  I found, however, that I made one final note for the Friday experience..., "Where can I find fried beer?"...  Damn, that still sounds good.

~ZMF

the Jazzfest Chronicles - Day 4

Jazzfest Chronicles - Day 4

    Saturday morning came, and I felt like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.  Was this repetitious cycle of binge eating and drinking ever going to end?  Possibly not.  I saw myself in the mirror, and realized I had awoken an inner fatty that I didn't know I had.  I was no longer shaped the way I had been before coming on this hedonistic adventure.  I was swollen.. soft and puffy like a beignet, and the essence of crawfish and oysters seemed to ooze from my pores like some vile bisque.   

    The upside was that at least now I blended in with the locals.    

    Unfortunately the intestinal gridlock had only intensified after the previous days extensive indulgences.  I actually found myself envying the guy with the toilet paper problem from the previous evening.  Fortunately, though, for the second morning in a row there was no dark presence humping away at me, demanding satiation via gluttony.  So, for the second morning in a row, I took advantage and stayed away from anywhere that might lure me in.  Even the standard morning Bloody Mary (for the nutritional content, of course) could start the ball rolling.  I had to hold out as long as I could.  

    "Holding out" turned into an 11:00 a.m. trip to a place called Willie May's Scotch-House.  The place was legendary for it's fried chicken the way that Mother's was legendary for it's Ferdie.  The swamp dog was obviously still humping Lisa for some soul-food, so we planned the fried-chicken stop on the way to our final day of Jazzfest.  There was a lot of anticipation and build-up about Willie May's, and by the time we neared it, even I was ready to eat again.  Sadly, our good karma seemed to have runs it's course when we pulled up to the Scotch-House, only to learn they were closed for the day.  "Sorry for the inconvenience", said the simple white sign.  

    Disappointed (though I may have harbored some small secret relief), we forwarded on straight to the festival.  We hit the fairgrounds and were stunned by the crowd.  Thursday (local's day) had been great.  Friday was somewhat more packed, but still very manageable.  Saturday looked like ACL Music Fest.  Fucking tourists. Clearly, we had to get our grub on early if we were going to have the energy to work our way through the masses, and we knew the food lines would only get longer later.   So... we kicked it off with a fast and hard hitting series of crawfish, meat-pies, and banana-bread-pudding, washed down with daquiris and beer.  Ahhhh.. that'll get you feeling human again.  Later there were more beignets (apparently I'm a slow learner), and then Lisa found God in a basket of fried sweet-potato chips doused with powdered sugar.  We made the rounds to the stages as best we could.  We were offered yet MORE doobie (WTF? Were they growing it at the fairgrounds?).  We went to a powwow and Lisa got to dance in a smoke-circle.  

    Finally it was time to try and snag a viewing location for Bon Jovi.  The problem was that even two hours before showtime, the place was packed.  Standing room only for a good quarter mile around the stage.  Fuck that.  We'd catch snippets of his performance later, but ultimately, dealing the crowd wasn't even close to being worth trying to watch him.  Same reason I don't go to ACL.    

    So the festival was over (for us, anyway), and there was nothing to do but go pack and wind down for our 7:30 a.m. flight the following morning.  Of course, that didn't stop us of from grabbing one last beer and a final bowl of gumbo.

~ZMF

The Jazzfest Chronicles - an epilogue

Jazzfest Chronicles - an Epilogue

    FINALLY!!! We got to leave.    Don't get me wrong, this trip earned New Orleans a place high on my list of favored destinations.  For that matter, should I ever win the lottery, I'll buy a second home in the Garden District... and perhaps even set myself up with an ice cream suit and a bow-tie, which I'll wear while drinking mint julips and smoking cigars.  But that didn't change the fact that it was definitely time to go.  

    I woke Sunday morning to a worn voice in my head pleading with me; no more walking, no more drinking, and for god's sake no more eating.  I couldn't take anymore.  Had our trip lasted another day, I would have never stuck the dismount.... there would have been no heroic Kerri Strug ending for me.  I would have landed on that bad ankle and collapsed in a heap, except that my version would have found both me and my gelatinous midriff curled up in a drooling ball, waiting for the beignets to move a little further down the line.  

    As we made our way through the airport, it seemed that the universe was taunting me all the way to the gate.  Did I want to stop at Cafe du Monde's coffee stand? Not a chance... I wasn't about to risk finally dropping a deuce on the plane.  Oh, did I want one last po'boy?  Uggghh, were they fucking kidding me?  Having food stands in the New Orleans airport is crueler than the slot machines in the Vegas airport.  

    In any case, we made the plane, made the drive, and by noon had made it home.  

    An observation was made the last night we were there, and it's one I'm still chewing on.  It was suggested that New Orleans is all the things that Austin claims to be, but is a little more real about it all.  There's a lot to that with which I can't disagree, though being a fan of Austin, I resist embracing the idea.  It's certainly a more mature city.  It seems to have a more developed sense of itself.  The friendliness of the people is more ubiquitous than what is found in Austin, and it lacks that "we're the cool kids" egotism.  The drinks are just as plenty, and apparently the pot is free.  I even suspect that New Orleans could go toe-to-toe with Austin's claim of being the 'Live Music Capital of the World'.  

    On the other side of that scale, though: The women in Austin are much better looking (I suspect the ladies might make the same statement about the men); Austin has that strong contingent of the young, fit, and educated;  While we were blessed with pleasant spring days, I'll take the heat of Austin over the humidity of the gulf in heartbeat; and finally, while I loved getting my creole grub on, a bowl of gumbo and a Hurricane will never stand up against a good enchilada and a Mexican Martini.  

~ZMF