N'arlins Day 1

After a hell of a week in Daytona Beach Brownbear and Big Cat arrived in a city named after it’s great music, crazy bars, and thousands of girls “stripping there way through college”….The Big Easy. This was the first day not filled with free alcohol, crowded pool decks, and a huge head ache; we both agree it is a bitter sweet feeling. We checked into our hotel, which could have been The Plaza compared to the Conch House, and got ready for a great

Cajun dinner and a relaxing night. After all it was Sunday around 10:30 P.M. and even the “Big Easy” needs a day of rest.

We moved to Decatur Street and after a quick inquisition of a few locals we found a little

restaurant called Coops Place. This was easily some of the best food we had ever eaten; the jambalaya was filled with well-cooked rabbit, perfectly seasoned sausage, and rice as soft as risotto. Despite the Big Cat being used to zebras and the occasional disabled gazelle he left Coop’s satisfied. But Brownbear’s are used to a little honey after dinner so we decided to scavenge around Bourbon Street knowing it would be deserted late on Sundays. As we neared our destination we soon realized this street was far from asleep and even farther from a Church. Some have called alcohol “nectar of the gods”, in this case Bourbon Street was heaven.

Bourbon Street was insane. Covered with people from sidewalk to sidewalk, we felt as if we had stumbled into Zombieland. Locals and tourist alike dragged their feet, stumbled into walls, and would mumble words that too often resembled a cry for “Brainnnnns!” In a desperate act of self-preservation we quickly purchased a huge round of “Hand Grenades”, the zombies drink of choice.

Grenades in hand, we made our way down Bourbon Street. Live music poured from most doorways attempting to lure the Big Cat closer but one called to him like a Siren. The irony was not lost on me as the Big Cat made a beeline for the bar aptly named “Fat Cats”. Other than the awesome name, they had a live 80s rock band. Surrounded by lesser cats known as Cougars we hopped onto the dance floor and began to air guitar Foreigner’s Juke Box Hero. Once we taught an older generation the Y’s could still rock, we grabbed drinks To Go and headed down the street.

Being a little hot and sweaty drove us to find shade in the cool den of “Live Blues’ where a man, who looked like he learned Jazz during the Great Depression, wailed on a guitar and sang inappropriate pick up lines in a “cool way”. Never before have I heard the words “fat, watermelon, or horizontal” make great compliments for a woman. But surprisingly every woman in there could not stop staring at him like the Big Cat stares at lesser mammals for dinner….maybe he’s on to something. Anyway, we sat down at the bar and started talking to a girl that was our age who looked like she was there with her parents.

After a few drinks and a quick spin on the dance floor with a Panther, which is a generation older than your everyday cougar, (Sucks to suck Kline) we discovered she was there with her boss. Both of whom were interior designers. In a odd twist of fate they missed a flight to Pittsburgh and decided to stop by New Orleans for a few days. They both seemed very nice and we had a round of drinks before heading to another bar.

The girl resembled any young 22 year old from the Midwest. What we found off setting was her boss. He was a man no taller than 5’6 whom must have been pushing 55 years of age. He resembled a taller George Castanza with the haircut of a 16^th century monk, naturally bald in all the wrong places. It was kind of cool that her boss would take her to New Orleans. However, as the night went on it got a bit creepier. To make a long story short we went to another bar with them and Mr. Castanza starts hitting on every girl he sees including the girl that worked for him. Furthermore she refused to be more than three feet from his side at all times. Now as sad as it is this is probably not all that uncommon in New Orleans. But Brownbear’s impeccable animal instincts began to sense something was off as he talked with George. The two continually changed small details of their story, such as their original destination being Lebanon Pittsburgh, while earlier it had been Lancaster and other small facts. As the inconsistencies grew so did our uneasiness. We finally escaped the two only to have the girl yell at us for walking away… I could not shake the thought of waking up in bathtub full of ice while the two had dinner on a nice pelt of Big Cat. This horrifying thought rocked me to sleep as our first night in New Orleans came to a close.