Confession: Sometimes I forget how truly and deeply awesome the city of New Orleans can be (Although in my defense, let me refer you to my earlier post referencing the STD-ridden den of daddy issues and Dep hair gel that is TJ Quills--and other such disreputable NOLA establishments). I'll admit I'm a little spoiled and I've gotten to do more traveling in my life than most people my age, so I tend to go into 'America-is-so-boring-and-passe' mode on occasion and be all 'too cool for school' (I'm aware that that's super obnoxious, but I'm pretty sure you already know I'm kind of an asshole sometimes. Plus it's a coping mechanism, and you're probably not perfect either, so step off).
Now, let me preface this by saying that I have a pretty diverse group of friends, and I love them all equally (ish). That being said, some of my friends like to do stuff that's Seriously Beyond Lame (like hang out regularly at TJ Quills, the owners of which are probably going to sue me if they ever read this blog, but hey, bring it on, you're welcome to the $63 in my checking account. Honestly, I'd pay a lot more than that to be legally allowed to publicly flog that hellhole on a daily basis. I'll even throw in a couple vintage movie posters. Cuz when ya got nothin', ya got nothin' to lose, baby), and believe you me, I don't hesitate to whine, bitch, and moan like it's my job when dragged out for SBL activities (just ask Charlie how I react whenever someone utters the words 'Red Eye' within a 5 mile radius of where I'm standing. It ain't pretty, folks. But that place is a disgusting sweatbox that I would literally rather be waterboarded than set foot inside EVER again. Sorry, but this is New Orleans, I am Marisa, and in my opinion, central air should not be optional in bars that get so effing crowded I've been tempted to summon the Fire Marshal just so a girl can score a Bud Light from the bar without inadvertently losing her virginity. Yea, I'm not even sure exactly what that means, but I'm upset now. By the way guys, if you ever meet a virgin at the Red Eye, you should start buying lottery tickets). Ok, getting back on track...What the devil was I getting at? Oh, right.
In any case, too many SBL outings tend to send me spiraling into a NOLA-hating depression of sorts, and I forget that there are a ton of non-seizure-inducing places to go and things to do in this city as well. Enter Christine. Bless her heart, the girl never fails to rock my socks off. Chrissy, you are one genuinely kickass broad (please don't ever leave me). So, last night, with Chrissy's help, I was reminded of why New Orleans can't be tamed. We elected to go down to Frenchman Street in the Marigny (land of good food, great music, and an excellent assortment of hippies), and as we exited the car feet away from a gaggle of dreadlocked and hennaed ruffians jumping double dutch on the side of the road, I knew it was going to be a good night.
Now, off we go to DBA (and let me tell you, those folks know the value of some good air conditioning, because it was downright frosty in there. So we know Marisa was happy as a little clam), where we are promptly informed that Mr. Walter “Wolfman” Washington & The Roadmasters will be playing at 10pm. Well, don’t mind if I do, and don’t mind if I do. Christine ordered us two pints of NOLA Blonde Ale, we lit up a couple Marlboros, and let the chips fall where they may.
It was about 8:30pm when we arrived at DBA, and after being informed that our tab had been 'taken care of' TWICE by the middle aged gentlemen down the bar, we left at 1:30am in a taxi having spent a grand total of $5 (plus taxi fare, we're not quite THAT good) between the two of us, and Chrissy only had to dance with one of the old guys for a hot second before being rescued by an adorable Lithuanian boy wearing a tshirt that said 'ENERGIE' on the front. Before we left, we wrote the blog site on a napkin and handed it to him, so if you're reading this, sweet Lithuanian boy, a-thank you very much. God, I've gone from intense hatred to an outpouring of joy just writing this post. I. Have. Emotions.
Bottom line, if ever you tire of New Orleans, just go down to Frenchman and catch a show any night of the week. And Wolfman Washington, we just can't thank you enough. Please don't stop the music. Peace.
1) Yes. Frenchmen is absolutely the best place in the best city in America (the land of boring and passe). It embodies the attitude that makes us great. I'm confident when I travel (in America) because I know that being from New Orleans makes me cooler and better than anyone I meet. Sorry non-New Orleanians. We win. Frenchmen's the proof. Boom. 2) Apparently you use cabs fairly often. I'm glad you broke up with United. I own a cab and will drive you wherever you'd like, my treat. That way you can keep it a $5 night. ....as long as I'm not stuck at my firehouse. Which happens to be at the foot of Frenchmen. Double-boom.
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