NEW ORLEANS NEEDS YOUR MONEY

and will apparently get it by all means neccessary. the king hen made its donation through the parking/tow truck officials.

after a gruelling 10-hour drive through--but without even setting foot in--mississippi, our welcome to the crescent city was finding the van missing from its french quarter parking spot after a short walk around. apparently it doesn't matter if the rules are not posted and there are no markings on the street or curb: just don't park within 20 feet of an intersection. and make sure to bring cash because the tow / impound folks don't mess around with any of that check or credit garbage.

we were supposed to play CHECKPOINT CHARLIE'S in the french quarter that night, but retrieving our rolling home and all its possessions ate up our time-slot. the--much friendlier--people at the club assured us we could probably wedge ourselves in between the two bands the next night (friday) and it would be just as good, as the saints were currently being slaughtered in their NFL season opener, and nobody really had the gumption to go celebrate.

that gave us a night off in this city, as beautiful and delicious as it is dangerous and screwed up. we got a great deal on a sweet hotel room right in the thick of things, and bore witness to all the sleaze and revelry that occupies these amazing environs at night. we were joined by aaron's childhood pal lance, and his good-humored girlfriend liz, our local designated court-jesters.

what can one say about the french quarter that hasn't been said a million times before? there were rows of bars all blasting well-executed cover songs all night long (choose your familiar genre) there were well-dressed and predatorily drunk nascar dads, and their vomiting sons staggering around in anticipation for some big weekend football event; there were many Girls About To Go Wild, and everywhere there were the folks who were desperately--and effectively--taking their money. it smelled like gumbo and puke and flowers and human shit wherever you went. we decided that observation was safer than participation, and made it to bed safely before the sun came up on friday

after self-guided walking tours, a visit to a classic n.o. cemetary, amazing down-home gumbo, and a drive through several still mostly-abandoned neighborhoods, we gratefully slipped our 35-minute set between the two 3-hour bands back at checkpoint charlie's. here we discovered another new orleans entirely: the one made up of musicians who seem to be here in order to stay playing the blues and stay stoned most of the time. very haggard, but very good people. and of course music-wise we were the kids wearing water-wings at the olympic swimming event. we didn't quite fit the new orleans music typology, but were warmly received and entertained by T-BONE STONE AND THE LAZY BOYS first; and SLEWFOOT & CARY B. after us. these guys are better than the stereotype, and i must confess i fell madly in love with bass-player/singer cary b's left hand. and developed a deep crush on everything it was attached to.

meanwhile the debauchery escalated down on bourbon street, and once again the king hen escaped disgrace and embarrassment just enough to get out of town the next morning with all but a percentage of our livers intact.