"In vacant or in pensive mood..." I am: Bekah; 24; Law Student / Favorite Things: Carbs (so there!), Johnny Damon, Smiling at babies, Grilled cheese, Comfortable silence / Favorite Supreme Court Justice: Brennan / Favorite Wilson: Owen by an inch / Today's Special: Song: Elliott Smith, "Bled White"; Quote: "You know, there's like a butt-load of gangs at this school. This one gang kept wanting me to join because I'm pretty good with a bowstaff." Please love me: mmbekah@yahoo.com


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People who have never been to Bourbon Street probably think anything said or written about it is hyperbole. (Why would so many people really want to eat and drink to excess in a place that reeks of everything—and I mean everything—that the human body expels? Isn’t that like having Thanksgiving dinner in a sewer?) As a Bourbon Street veteran, I can assure you that anything you hear about this den of iniquity is truer than your innocent soul could imagine. It is difficult to put the sights, sounds, and especially smells of Bourbon Streets into words, but I’ll try to hit the high points with my Top 5 Reasons Why I Love to Hate Bourbon Street:

1. Confrontation with Horses’ Asses. Every night, policemen on horseback proudly patrol Bourbon Street, valiantly guarding their fair subjects from dangerous thugs in covered wagons and possible invasion by catapulted boulders. Due to this efficient policing practice, Bourbon Street is the only place I know where you can be confronted by a horse’s ass in your face with absolutely no notice. Generally, if you are reasonably cognizant of your surroundings you have at least a moment’s warning that you are approaching a horse’s ass. But on Bourbon Street, you can be inside a dense crowd one second and inches from a horse’s ass the next without knowing what hit you. On my latest venture to Bourbon, I made this very observation to a group of friends after encountering the ass (and almost the hoof) of a police horse. My friend Micah said something like, “I didn’t realize it offended you so much to run into me!” And then the beauty of Bourbon Street became even more evident: You can run into literal AND figurative horse’s asses without warning, and you might not be able to tell the difference!
2. Getting Back to Nature. It is an understatement to say that there is something primal about Bourbon Street, given that the typical patron is Cro-Magnon man with beads. Food. Carnal desire. Excrement. Bourbon Street has all of the basics. Beads are really the only thing that separates Bourbon Streeters from the apes. Surprisingly, even in their drunken states, men on Bourbon Street are able to identify “Beads” as a bright, shiny symbol for the greater category of activities related to “Sex.” It is this kind of high-level associative power that makes humans such an impressive species. (A word of advice: Avoid Bourbon Street at all costs if you are prone to do any of the following: despair about the human condition, judge people who urinate in public, scorn projectile vomiting, or smile at people you don’t know, just to be nice).
3. Knowing the Lay of the Land. To an unpracticed visitor, Bourbon Street can be a dangerous and disgusting booby trap (pun clearly intended). It is one long obstacle course, with pitfalls and distractions at every turn. Pools of vomit and piles of fresh horse crap are situated randomly on the ground as a test of agility. Beer waterfalls descend from various balconies without warning. Horrifying flashes of naked flesh pierce the darkness. Three-foot poles blocking cars’ entry onto the street are often obscured by the crowd, and can catch less-attentive Bourbon Streeters right in the groin. Scary men with greasy ponytails beckon to you from the dark recesses of their vile lairs. Fortunately, a veteran like me knows how to avoid all of these traps, and can instead sit back and watch the drunken masses swarm around like mice in a maze. It is amusing and devastatingly depressing at the same time.
4. Disconnection from Oneself. I like to think that I’m a normal person with certain relatively high standards and expectations for myself and others. That’s why going to Bourbon Street presents me with such a quandary. On the one hand, Bourbon Street is gross, and the people there are repulsive, drunken jerks. On the other hand, I go to Bourbon Street. How can I really judge the people if I’m one of them? Am I really one of them if I just go to laugh at their expense? Is there any real distinction?
5. Destination: Nowhere. In this fast paced world, everyone is always focused on where they’re going. If you “go to Bourbon Street,” you’ll realize that it’s not really a destination at all. You walk up the street. You walk down the street. You saunter. You mill about. You congregate in front of one bar for several minutes. People get antsy, and you start walking again. And you always walk very, very fast in order to get nowhere as quickly as possible. Sometimes this lack of purpose confronts me when I’m actually on Bourbon Street, and at that point there is only one thing I can do. Find a Hurricane immediately and silence that silly, uptight voice of reason once and for all.

posted by Bekah at 7:18 PM :: |