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