Sid Stein Experiences Deja Vu

After the ordeal I endured on my way to New Orleans (see Sid Stein is Involved in a Racial Incident on His Way to New Orleans), I was determined to have as much fun as possible. That meant at least one very late night roaming around Bourbon Street visiting the various bars. And I suppose that meant a lot of drinking. Hell, they named the street after a kind of whiskey. How much clearer can you get? (My apologies to France).

If you have never been to Bourbon Street when a big event is taking place in New Orleans, then you are really missing something. It’s a bit crazy, but a lot of fun to do at least once, especially if you like girls flashing their breasts for cheap plastic beads. I wish some psychologist would conduct a study to help explain what motivates women to misbehave sexually in exchange for incredibly inexpensive baubles. It might save a lot of time and money in the minefield known in common parlance as dating and romance. Instead of buying your date an expensive dinner and taking her to a show, wouldn’t it be great if you could show up with a few strands of plastic beads? "Hi, honey, here are some beads. Show me your tits."

Whatever variety of "people watching" you may enjoy, it certainly is not the only activity on Bourbon Street. More than anything else, the focus is alcohol, served in excess at the many bars which line the street. And, you can drink in the street! Just ask for a plastic "go" cup as you are leaving your bar. There are clubs featuring jazz, rock, karaoke, and of course, strippers. Just be careful with those Hurricanes. They are powerful and pack a punch, And I am not talking about Katrina. Two other notes in case you are thinking about making a trip for the first time. Don’t argue with the police and don’t wander off Bourbon Street down dark alleys. You will be mugged. I forgot to mention one other very important thing. Some of the hookers are men. Don’t ask me how I know that.

As I mentioned in my previous entry, my father accompanied me on my trip to New Orleans. He is now a 2 year Jazzfest veteran. I am sure he’ll want to come next year too. My dad, however, is no longer interested in wandering around after a day in the hot sun and a club show. Even though he has more stamina than many people much younger than himself, he prefers a decent night’s sleep before heading out to Jazzfest for another day in the sun. His desire to go to bed "early," however, did not mean I was left to my own devices on Bourbon Street.

As it turned out, a good friend from Albany, Kate, was in New Orleans for Jazzfest. Although I knew about her for quite a few years because we both did Family Law, I didn’t become friends with her until she started coming to karaoke at the Bleecker on Thursday nights. It turned out we had a number of things in common beyond singing. We both love New Orleans and Jazzfest. In fact, even though I never ran into her before, Kate attended Jazzfest every year like me until Katrina hit. I learned that the house where she stayed every year had been destroyed in the flood, and her friend who owned the house moved out of state. This year, however, her friend was returning to New Orleans to visit for the first time since Katrina and arranged housing for herself and Kate.

I don’t know about you, but I am always a bit leery of encountering friends from home when I am out of town. Relationships which work on one level at home do not always translate well in different situations and places. For the most part, my friendship with Kate centered around karaoke. Seeing someone once or twice a week at a bar is a lot different from spending hours of face time with a person. There are other people and other distractions. And, as much as I was looking forward to spending time with Kate in New Orleans, I was equally nervous. The last thing I wanted was for something to go wrong in New Orleans. Would she drive me nuts? Cramp my style? Embarrass me in front of my sister and father? If anything went horribly wrong, it would mean feelings of great discomfort at karaoke back in Albany. I certainly didn’t want to screw up my weekly cathartic activity. In these stressful times, we all need a little release. Despite the downside potential, though, I was going to hit it with my best shot. After all, Kate may have had feelings of trepidation herself. And, there was always the infinitesimal possibility that I would be the one to embarrass her.

Before we left Albany, I had ordered three tickets for the Buddy Guy show at the House of Blues on Saturday night. Seeing Buddy Guy in a club is a no-brainer. He is a legend and still one of the best blues guitarists on the planet. I was sure my Dad would enjoy the show. The other ticket was for Kate.

My sister and I spent the day at Jazzfest. My dad took her 7 year old to the Audobon Zoo. He’s a great kid with a lot of energy, but wore out my father who decided against going out at night to see Buddy Guy. That meant I had an extra ticket. I called Kate and asked her if she could invite one of her friends from where she was staying. She got back to me and told me that Natalie, in whose house she was staying, would be able to go with us. I didn’t know Natalie, but I always liked the name. There is a beautiful ballad by Julio Iglesias called Nathalie. My sister offered to pick up Kate and Natalie and take us down to the French Quarter. She’s a great sister.

My father was snoring on the couch, forcing my sister to pack her son into the car so he wouldn't feel lonely while she was acting as our chauffeur. Kate said that she and Natalie would be waiting for us outside on the porch. And they were. My sister, as helpful as she is, can be a bit impatient. So far so good.

Natalie hadn’t planned on going out Saturday night. That was apparent from the moment she stepped into my sister’s car. She was bombed and very loud. Oh boy! She was kind of cute though, even though that fact didn’t make a bit of difference to my sister. You may wonder how I knew that Natalie hadn’t planned on going out. Well, there is only one way to survive Jazzfest in the hot New Orleans sun if you want to go out at night. Do not drink alcohol, especially to any degree of excess. If you do, the sun works its magic and wears you down. Chances are that you will be so washed out and dehydrated that you will either wither or simply pass out. Natalie must be some kind of girl. A trooper! That’s a lot of stamina for one person. On the other hand, I did wonder if we were going to "lose" her at some point.

My sister gave me one of those "where did you find her" looks. At least Natalie was polite. Still, she could have been a little more discreet around my 7 year old nephew. Was there really any reason for her to discuss the alarming rise in the murder rate in New Orleans since Katrina? I got another look from my sister. And did Natalie have to be so loud about it? On the other hand, she was kind of cute.

Fortunately for my sister’s state of mind, Natalie didn’t live far from the French Quarter, so the trip was short. Natalie could do only so much damage to my nephew’s psyche.. Thanks for the ride, Sis. It’s a shame you were too tired to see Buddy Guy.

Maybe it was about 9 or so when Buddy Guy took the stage dressed in his trademark black shirt with big white polka dots and black guitar adorned with, you guessed it, white polka dots. Did you ever wonder why they are called polka dots? I never did.

For those of you who have never seen Buddy Guy, try to see him if you have the chance. Not only is he one of the best guitarists, but he is an incredible showman. You will be highly entertained.

As the show wore on, Kate and I were catching up to Natalie who continued her consumption of alcohol which began hours earlier. She also calmed down. Even though I was thinking that maybe it was the calm before the storm, we were having a great time. I was relieved that things were going so well.

Since we were already in the French Quarter, Bourbon Street was next on the agenda once the show ended. It was outstanding, by the way. And off we went. Kate wanted to sing karaoke, so we headed down Bourbon toward the world famous Cats Meow. http://www.catsmeow-neworleans.com/ Check it out.

We were drunk, but we still didn’t like what we saw at the Cats Meow. It was packed with much younger drunks. It also looked like the club had hired some hot-looking girls to sing songs to the crowd. That meant fewer songs for the patrons to sing. We would have been lucky to get one song in. For karaoke addicts such as ourselves, one song would simply not be enough. I had another, more adventurous, destination in mind anyway. Kate and Natalie were amenable, so out the door we went.

Club Oz is pretty far down Bourbon Street. I don’t know if the owners chose the site on purpose. Perhaps they didn’t want too many tourists destroying the normal peace and tranquillity associated with New Orleans’ premier gay dance club. If they did, then they found a good spot. It’s at the other end of the street from Canal, which forms the southwestern border of the French Quarter where Bourbon Street begins. In other words, it’s a schlep to get there, especially after a day on your feet at Jazzfest and a night of heavy drinking. Except for whatever personal difficulties you might have walking, you should know that most of Bourbon Street is pedestrian-friendly after 7 p.m. It is closed to traffic between Canal and St. Ann. You are free to stumble your way in and out of clubs without worry, at least until you get past St. Ann. Club Oz is on the corner of Bourbon and St. Ann. In other words, Club Oz is as far down Bourbon Street as you want to get. http://www.ozneworleans.com/

I would like to digress a moment to say a word or two about gay bars in general, and Club Oz, specifically. If you are straight, chances are you do not frequent gay bars. That is a shame because they are a lot of fun, especially if you like to dance as I do. Without a doubt, they are the very best places to dance. The music is great and you can dance with abandon. As I explained in my book, "A Little on the Side," they are also a great place for cheaters to bring their lovers. On the one hand, it’s unlikely that you will be spotted by anyone who knows you or your spouse. On the other hand, gay men have an unwritten rule - if you see someone you know and they don’t talk to you, you don’t out them. It’s the original version of the famous "Don’t ask, don’t tell" rule. For straight men, there is an additional benefit with a positive sexual twist. It’s great to bring a date to a gay bar if she has never been. For starters, she will think you are very secure in your masculinity if you don’t mind being surrounded by gay men. Even better, she will be thinking about sex the whole time. She won’t be able to avoid it. She might see two men kiss or just hug. Sure, it won’t be heterosexual sex that she is contemplating, but I always think it’s a great plan to have your date thinking about sex so you don’t have to bring it up in conversation. You also have no competition at a gay bar. No one there will be interested in your date. Unaccustomed to not receiving attention from men at a bar, your date will look to you for comfort and reassurance that she is desirable. She may get a bit clingy, but so what? She’ll be yours.

As for Club Oz, it is simply one of the best gay bars in the land. In New Orleans, if you tell someone that you were at Club Oz, they don’t automatically think you are a closet homosexual. They just figure you like to dance. They may think that’s "gay" because "real" men don’t dance, but neither will they be worried about you in a locker room nor introducing you to their sister. After discovering Club Oz many years ago, I always make it a point to visit there at least once every Jazzfest. On weekend nights, the place is packed and there are always some adventurous female tourists there. It’s usually a lot of fun.

Since I didn’t think I would be on Bourbon Street more than once this trip, I offered to take Kate and Natalie to Club Oz. They were game and off we went down Bourbon Street, enjoying "people watching" as we staggered and stumbled.

New Orleans is packed with tourists of all ages during Jazzfest. Late at night on Bourbon Street, after hours of drinking, some become quite boisterous. So, in order to preserve its nature as a gay club, Oz charges a five dollar cover. Except for the strip clubs, it may be the only bar on Bourbon to do so. That keeps the merely curious out and ensures that the gay population of New Orleans will have a place to dance even during crowded tourist weekends. It’s never wise to alienate your core demographic. By the way, don’t be fooled by those strip clubs which induce patrons to enter because they don’t charge a cover. The first drink will cost you twenty-five bucks and you may only be getting to see a man with implants anyway. Live and learn.

I paid the cover for the three of us, and inside we went. I was shocked. There were hardly any people there. Where have all the gay men gone? Did they all move to Miami after Katrina? Did the gay community organize a boycott of Oz for some unknown reason? Did they run out of free condoms? Readers, yours truly was confused. Where were all the Judy Garland lovers?

There wasn’t any problem finding three seats at the bar, so we sat down. At the very least, I knew that the girls would have a good time. Why? I will tell you. On the weekends, Club Oz always has two or three very hunky and good looking men without a trace of body hair dancing on the bar and flexing their very big muscles. If you are a fan of the gluteus maximus, you will not be disappointed. The dancers wear g-strings. If instead, you are a connoisseur of pectorals or biceps, don’t fret. There are plenty to go around.

Since we had just paid a cover and ordered drinks, we figured we might as well stick around for a while. Maybe we were a bit early. Besides, the girls were enjoying the dancers. I decided to get up and dance. Solo. Why not? No one cares at a gay bar so long as you are having a good time. Even in my inebriated state, I was pretty good. I even got up on the small stage to show off my talents. And, I didn’t even fall off!

After dancing like a complete fool, I went back to my drink and the girls. Frankly, I was disappointed. Even after 45 minutes, Oz wasn’t getting any busier. For the first time in 13 years of going to New Orleans for Jazzfest, Club Oz was a bust.

After a long day in the sun listening to music, going to the House of Blues to hear Buddy Guy, roaming around Bourbon Street and drinking heavily, what does one do late at night? Get something to eat, of course. The three of us were resolved to leave Oz and find some food. Still, I couldn’t leave without providing my companions with at least some excitement, so I pulled a five dollar bill out of my pocket and stuffed it in the g-string of one of dancers on the bar. I am not going to say that I touched anything while providing this monetary reward to the Adonis on the bar, but I did turn to Kate and announced: "Kate, just so you know, that’s as gay as I get." She laughed heartily. Laughs are good.

I am going to take a few words now to toot my own horn. Among my sister’s friends, I am legendary as a late-night reveler. Until Katrina, once a year, for five days in New Orleans, I had more stamina than anyone I have ever known. I would arrive in New Orleans on a Wednesday afternoon, shower, change my clothes, get a bite to eat and then hit the clubs. Typically, I would not get back to my sister’s house until 5 or 6 a.m. I frequently closed Bourbon Street. Although there are a few bars which never close, at some point, city trucks roll down Bourbon spraying water and vacuuming up the thousands of plastic cups and beads left behind by tourists. At least once, I didn’t make it back to my sister’s house until 10 a.m. That was my all-time record, beating my personal best by 2 hours. On many nights before heading home, I would stumble up Bourbon to Krystal, a burger joint similar to White Castle. http://www.krystalco.com/ (Very nice website, by the way) After downing about a half dozen little burgers, I would take a cab to my sister’s house, usually in a semi-conscious state, hit the bed, wake up four hours later, drink coffee, shower and then head to the fairgrounds for a day of music in the hot sun. The music ends each day at 7 p.m. My sister and I would return home where I would rest a few minutes, shower, get something to eat if I had time and then I would head to a club at night where my drinking and partying would begin again. This scenario repeated itself everyday through Sunday night. I usually flew back to Albany on Monday morning.

However, in all those years of partying, I never strayed off Bourbon Street in search of food. My sister always warned me not to stray and I always followed her admonition. It’s not that I am so rule-oriented, but New Orleans really can be a dangerous place if you are not careful, and sometimes, even if you are. This year was different. Natalie, a long-time resident of the city, was with me. And with Kate, of course. Natalie suggested we go to a restaurant off Bourbon Street. Dark side streets sounded appealing to me at this point. So I said to her: "Where you lead, I will follow." I often wax biblical late at night when I am drunk.

We headed up Bourbon toward Canal at a very slow pace. Natalie and Kate were busy chatting about something, so I was content to follow a few yards behind. Plus, I didn’t mind looking at all the pretty young girls. At certain times, it’s important to be able to entertain yourself.

We hadn’t gotten too far along Bourbon when suddenly I was accosted by two very skanky hookers. They were so ugly that I thought Jerry Springer was going to pop out and surprise me. Skanky wasn’t the worst of it. They were extremely aggressive, grabbing me all over and aksing (misspelled on purpose) me if I wanted to "party." Despite my protests, they did not let up in the least. I thought about screaming for help, but I was too embarrassed. Couldn’t Sid Stein deal with a couple of whores without calling in the reserves? I do have a reputation to uphold, after all.

As it turned out, I was rescued by the cavalry in the form of a mounted New Orleans Police officer. "Unhand the tourist!," he barked. Before I could say "Bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks," they were gone. Like magic. Was David Copperfield working as a Crescent City crusader? I offered the cop some beads as thanks. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he asked. "Just get the fuck out of here." And off I went, scurrying up the street to catch Natalie and Kate.

Kate thought my encounter with the hookers was pretty funny and teased me about it for the next 5 minutes. Natalie suggested I check to see if I still had my wallet. I did. Then I wondered if she expected me to pay for food.

Despite navigating off Bourbon Street, we arrived at our destination without further incident. The Deja Vu, 400 Dauphine Street, just one block over from Bourbon on the corner of Conti Street. http://www.neworleansonline.com/directory/location.php?locationID=140

It’s a popular local eatery open 24 hours for your dining convenience. It also beats waiting in line for greasy Krystal burgers. I think I ordered the seafood platter. I am not sure which manner of seafood I ate, but I remember it was very satisfying. Remembering that I still had my wallet, I picked up the check and said: "You know, Natalie, Deja Vu is the kind of place you hope never changes."