Having just returned from a trip down south, here's a Pretzel Logic look at New Orleans.
Let The Good Times (And The Good Ol' Boys) Roll
There's no truth to the rumor that I went to Gulfport, Mississippi just to check out all the tight-jeaned, cowboy booted good ol' boys. There were plenty of other reasons I went there. Such as… such as… um…
Driving with a friend from Gulfport to New Orleans, we got stuck in a traffic jam on the expressway, ending up next to a pickup truck with a rainbow cowboy sticker on its bumper. I've seen hairy arms before, but the gay ol' good ol' boy driving that truck had arm hair that was long enough to knit into a sweater—and without having to bother with shearing it off of him first.
Perhaps because we looked to see what the guys in the truck looked like, the hairy-armed pickup truck driver and his passenger looked over at my friend and me more than once as our trucks kept passing each other in the traffic jam. I joked to my friend that I was going to lick the passenger window of his truck the next time we passed them.
Color Blind Society
The Yellow Cabs in New Orleans are painted orange.
Finally, A Use For Hooters
Roaming the French Quarter, I passed a bar where a blues band was performing. The next night I was not sure which street the bar was on, but I found it again when I recalled that I also passed a Hooters on the same street, since all I had to do then was look up Hooters in the phone book.
Speaking of hooters, I witnessed a woman on Bourbon Street earn some beads from some straight guys, and that got me wondering: do lesbians go to New Orleans with suitcases full of beads to toss out to straight women?
Tight and Hot
They sell a brand of hot sauce in New Orleans called 'Sphincter Shrinker.'
Eating More Than Frog Legs
Does anything sum up the New Orleans experience more than the dried, shellacked real frogs posed in various oral sex positions that I also saw for sale?
School Of Hard Something
Somebody with a sense of humor posted a sign reading 'End School Zone' near the corner of Bourbon Street and St. Ann.
In the French Quarter, Pirates Alley intersects with Place John Paul II.
The Ghost Goes 'Boooooot!'
Wehmeier's Belt Shop, in the French Quarter, sells exotic skin cowboy boots, and is supposedly haunted by the ghost of a woman who met a violent death there over 200 years ago and was buried under the patio.
Personally, if I was going to combine ghosts and cowboy boots, I would prefer to have country music cutie Brad Paisley under a sheet... or better yet, Brad under the sheets.
When Worlds Collide
A pirogue and a pierogi have nothing in common.
Yeah, My Sausage
James, a cute, young Southern guy working as a steward in the dining car on the train back to Chicago came by to clear the table after breakfast and asked me 'Is there something I can grab?'
If you work on Amtrak and your name is James, you can e-mail me at DaveInChicago773@aol.com . If you are the hairy-armed pickup in the pickup truck, sorry, I don't have e-mail.