I'm sorry, loyal followers of this blog, for my lack of posts in the last month. I have been busy moving back to Colorado and I already wrote about Tebow here, so I'm not sure I have a whole lot to add. BUUUUUTTTT, I just went down to New Orleans and Houston for an epic trip, so this recap and the upcoming Jersey Shore season 3 will keep me busy (especially since I am back to unemployed) and you entertained.
This may shock you, due to my appetite for Southern Rap, Southern Girls and Southern Football, but I have really never been to the SOUTH. In my past travels I have been to southern Florida, Dallas and driven through Texas as a teenager, but none of those really qualify as THE SOUTH (too few Confederate Flags is a key sign). So, when two of my CSU buddies invited me on a New Years Eve trip to New Orleans, it took me about six seconds to agree (on Twitter, proving just how awesome of a network tool it is).
Let me tell you, this trip did not disappoint, Yes, the following post is long, but if you plan on going down South anytime in your future, read. Plus it is pretty damn funny, if I say so myself:
Setting: The Derrty Souf aka Houston, Bumblefuck Bayous and New Orleans.
Cast of Characters
DJ Stringer Bell: I sometimes joke that I am black, but when push comes to shove I know that I am no such thing, not even close. Stringer, well, I'm not sure he knows that he isn't. He really is a DJ, and his love of soul music and hippity-hoppity is integral to his personality, which certainly captures the rebelliousness of rap music. He was our host in Houston, and he was kind enough to volunteer the use of his "Quasi" girlfriend's Oldsmobile Alero to transport us to the Nolia.
Stringer is not shy to share his opinions, finds a ton of humor in ghetto folk and due to his problems with authority, the odds were against him staying out of jail. He was also the only person in our group who had ever been to the Nolia, so our official tour guide.
Ted Galaxy: A former all-American DJ (or the radio equivalent) at CSU, but is now a grad student at CU. This conflict of interests also is apparent in his sexual persuasion. He isn't gay (I think?) but he does love fashion, Lady Gaga and E! so much that he really could go either way.
More importantly, his Tyrone Biggums-esque crack-addict voice scarred the shit out of me constantly, as there were certain moments driving through the 9th Ward that I thought our car was being invaded by the locals.
Arab Money: He used to be the color man for CSU women's basketball team and now works for an awl (that oil to you Yanks) company and was the organizer of this journey. A well-seasoned traveler and talented drinker, his background research of HDNet's "Drinking Made Easy," was vital to our trip.
The Trip
Pregame, Day 0:
-While at a pregame feast at BD Grill in Denver, Stringer Bell’s father, Hubie Brown (so named because of his likeness to the NBA analyst), regaled us with a lovely tale of New Orleans fun. About a guy who thinks he has picked up a girl at a bar, leaves with her and catches a ride with her and her two male friends, gets robbed, shot in the head and left for dead on railroad tracks, but miraculously survives. His other story is about seeing a guy dead on Bourbon Street and people just walking around him like it ain’t no thang.
My father has spent the entire holiday break regaling me of his stories of New Orleans, ending most with “and then I saw some guy talk back to a cop and end up bleeding from the skull.”
Stringer jokes that we are gonna walk around New Orleans shouting
Katrina." We are so gonna die.
Day 1, Houston's Hood
-We land in Houston and Stringer rolls to pick us up. Buckled up in each seat is a nice, frosty Sheisenbacher (or some German-named beer). We crack these as we roll by the cop car at the terminal. Texas, Y’all: You better be drinkin’ if you is drivin.’
-Our first stop is Mr. A's The Club. There is a Mr. A’s in Colorado that Stringer likes to frequent, and it is probably the ghettoest place in Denver. The one in Houston, apparently is no different, as indicated by the crack-addict parking attendant who we dub Marvin Ely. Located smack dab in the middle of Kashmere Gardens, Mr. A’s proudly features Hood Night (gets real, real ghetto) on Thursdays, Hood Poetry on Tuesdays (sadly, on last Hood Poetry night the roof caught on fire. For serious) and God knows what the rest of the week. The four of us enter the bar and we upped the count of whites in the bar to exactly five. The other honkey is a waitress, who quickly comes over to ask us if we are lost, in so many words. We let her know that we intended to come, and we would like her cheapest beer. Except Teddy G, who gets the strongest drink in the bar, a $9 Long Island that does indeed put him on his ass.
The club is actually pretty mellow, with an awesome R&B cover band and about 20 black folks that all can be best described as older and pretty fucking chill. Still, they is hood. We chill, watch the locals and chat up the waitress, who tells us she got the job because “her baby’s-daddy is the brother of an uncles whose son is that bartender right over there.” Which is a very complicated and unnecessary way for her to let us know that she is a whore looking for black dick.
We make such a good impression that one of the guys at the bar invites us to the Rap-A-Lot Records New Years party. As tempting as it would be to party with the Geto Boys, we decided that New Orleans was a better location for people of our pigment. Turns out, not really.
-Our next stop was at a Taqueira literally run out of a trailer in a dirt parking lot. It was surprisingly good. I especially enjoyed the outdoor foosball table and patio covered with an awning. Classy.
Day 2, Galleria and the Ghetto
-The next day saw us take a look at the prize jewel of Houston, the monstrous Awl Money pit that is the Galleria. Probably the biggest, fanciest mall this side of Dubai, the galleria has every overpriced chain you can think of, and 25 more. Because land in Texas is cheap, yet atop tons of liquid gold and full of people who want to buy class, the galleria is the epicenter of the Fake Aristocracy that is Houston’s elite. We wandered around ignoring much of the merchandise, mostly debating how attractive the girls would be compared to Colorado girls, since these Texas girls dressed to the nines and packed on make-up to get the maximum out of their God-given 5 rating, while Colorado 7s don’t put in the effort whatsoever. We dubbed it the “Plus-1” system.
-We were in a desperate search for Pedialyte, because according to Arab Money’s research, chugging a full bottle of Pedialyte before bed was a great hangover preventer. We ended up stopping at a Fiesta Grocery, which was the world’s most hood grocery store. Doubt me? There was a fucking Church’s Chicken inside the store.
Teddy and Stringer followed him, attempting to get a picture, but he got wise to their scheme. To quote Ted,
"The only stuff I can remember LaTarian saying was: 'Hey ya'll are ya'll spyin' on me? I see you. Quit Spyin' on me.' At that point I blacked into hysteria and couldn't remember a thing he fucking said after that."
There was no Pedialyte to be found, but Arab Money and I each purchased 24oz. cans of Schlitz, because when in the ghetto…
-The thing you notice quickly in the South is the racism. It is palpable. The whites dislike the blacks, blacks dislike whites, and both hate the goddamn Mexicans. It isn't healthy, but just looking at the stereotypical people all around, it is impossible to ignore, and it is so easy to get caught up in...especially for someone like myself, who thinks stereotypes are hilariously entertaining.
-Following the ghetto shopping spree we hit up a giant ass liquor store. Which wasn’t exciting, but when we left we witnessed a dude attempting to straight jack a Caddy. He was just milling around, pretending to look for a key, until we pulled up and I tried to take a picture, at which point he fled.
-That evening, after we had mocked Houston in front of Stringer for about 24 hours, he decided to show us that Houston in fact did have nightlife, so we took off to Washington Ave to get our club on. The area was actually really fun and much less pretentious than most downtown/club areas that I have experienced. No covers, attractive girls and not an overwhelming amount of douche. Good times, but the highlight of the night was the last song of the evening, Busta’s “Arab Money,” which could not have been more fitting for Houston, and was obviously the impetuous for the nickname.
Day 3, Chupacabras, Tigers, Gators and Lokos -The next morning we had to stop before leaving for N.O. to get an oil change. Once it was finished, DJ Stringer yelled out “Time to go, you crazy Chupacabras.” The black cashier broke out laughing, wheezing out “He jus’ called you hairless dogs.” After that exchange, Chupacabras became a pretty prominent word on our trip, describing all the "undesirables."
-Following this, we had to backtrack to Stringer’s apartment because he had forgotten his razor. Which isn’t that interesting of a story, until he realized in Baton Rouge that he had also forgotten his money.
-We stopped for gas and gas station chicken on the outskirts of Houston, and among the random collection of crap for sale at the store was a t-shirt that said “Don’t be sexist…BITCHES hate that.” Texas, y’all. It was here that we remembered driving sober through Texas and LA wasn’t allowed, so we popped open the trunk and grabbed warm Lonestars. Then, in Iowa, Louisiana, Stringer picked up some El Jimador margaritas in a can. Wooooooo!!!
-We made a pit stop at the Lion’s Den Adult Store, and it did not disappoint. No, the awesome selection of movies, mags and anatomically correct torsos wasn’t that special (but the Kentucky, Louisiana and Texas Swingers Guides were a great find), but the best part of the store was outside…the fact that a father had locked his 4 year-old daughter in the car as he popped in for some smut.
-No drive through the Bayou is complete without a visit to LSU in Baton Rouge, a campus right in the middle of oil rigs and nothingness. We toured the campus (shockingly similar to CSU architecturally), attempting to sneak into Tiger Stadium but were foiled. Instead, Arab Money humped the Bayou Bengal statue and then we were gonna throw some pets to Mike VI, the live Tiger mascot, but this sign prevented us:
Ladies and Gentlemen, L-S-U!!! JaMarcus' intelligence, or lack thereof, makes a lot more sense.
-For dinner, we hit all the Cajun bases; Gumbo, Shrimp, Oysters, Catfish and Gator (chewy chicken, yummm).
-Following a heated discussion about our gas situation (it was somewhere between a quarter tank and an eighth), we stopped just outside the N.O. for some gas…and got hit in the face with straight South. First, Stringer purchased a knock-off Saints Super Bowl t-shirt with fake beads. He left the store for a second, then came back in wearing the shirt, spied Arab Money in line at the counter buying Sippin' Syrup and said “Boo-yah.”
This apparently mystified the fat black lady standing next to Arab, who looked at him and said. “Wha’ dat boy be saying dat boo-ya at ma?” (Why is that guy saying Boo-ya at me?) Our first genuine WTF ghetto/Cajun coonass moment of the trip. There would be many more.
-A couple hours later we hit Nawlins and checked into the Superdome Holiday Inn. After a quick shower, we bounced out towards Bourbon Street, but got a little lost trying to find Stringer’s “hood-certified” liquor store. After a quick detour through an overpriced corner store, we finally rallied to the find this Mecca of ghetto alcohol that was promised, and God was it awesome. Every type of malt liquor and Bougie smokes you could dream of, not to mention anarchy from all the hood folks trying to beg, borrow and straight steal the booze.
Yes, though we doubted Stringer’s directions at time, his pick of the Unique Grocery (half a block down Royal Street off of Canal, an area later described as Diagon Alley /Harry Potter) was on the money.
And when I say this place had every sort of liquor, I mean they even carried the recently banned, but surely never forgotten, cocaine-in-a-can that is 4 Loko, and if you see 4 Loko, you drink 4 Loko.
For those unaware of the glory, 4 Loko is a malt liquor drink that basically has the equivalent of 5 beers and 2 cups of coffee in a 24oz can, sweetened up to taste like your favorite Kool-Aid. It is now banned everywhere in the country by the FDA, except New Orleans and Las Vegas, allegedly. Well, in this ghetto LQ, 4 Lokos were going for around $2.20 (and I say around because apparently the price changed per hour, fluctuating from $2.09 to $2.50, probably depending on the amount of 4 Lokos the clerk had sucked down). Quite the fucking deal.
-Armed with two 4 Lokos each, our posse mobbed onto Bourbon Street and pretty much walked straight into titties, which was awesome. The best way to describe Bourbon Street is that it is the strip in Las Vegas, shrunk down to the size of an alley, featuring real architecture that no one has reinvested any money into ever. Every building feels like it is 200 years old, and while there are big neon signs and shit everywhere, the famous bars/clubs barely have sings signifying what they are. And there are crazy drunk people everyfuckingwhere. -About 1/3 places on Bourbon St. are strip clubs, and despite Stringer’s plan to hit up the Deja-Vu with it’s 3-story stripper pole, we got roped in by the promise of free cover at a place promising World Famous Sex Acts. Tough to pass that up, but like most places we visited, not exactly what we expected. See, the promised sex acts only happened upstairs, where strippers promised to “make you cum, baby,” for $50, but those performing said sex acts weren’t exactly the most attractive girls. In fact, they were all pretty ugly, fat, tatted up, uglier, anorexic, C-sectioned (I think it was this one that might have given Arab Money pink eye), herped out, etc.
Except one special girl, who had a pretty face, great ass, some decent tits and a MOTHERFUCKING BABY. Yup, we got to watch a lovely woman dance around in a g-string and semi-muumuu with another human incubating in her stomach. When she bent over in front of us I was pretty sure I could see the baby up her birth canal. It was pretty awesome.
-You can only look at so much pregnant pussy, so we moved back out onto Bourbon Street, which was in full chaos mode. People of all ages fucked the fuck up, beads flying, tits popping out sporadically, cops on horseback plowing through the crowd. Oh man, just an epic convergence of drunk, horny and dumb. 8 Lokos deep and now sipping on Hand Grenades, we were no different. We fought people for beads then threw them back at those on top of balconies, pissed on side streets and tried to comprehend what was going on.
At some point near midnight we met a group of girls. I introduced myself as Jermaine, they bought it, showing their level of; A) Intelligence & B)Intoxication, so they were right in my wheelhouse. For some reason I was dead set on going into a bar (even though now I can’t see why. Being out on Bourbon Street to welcome 2011 would have been more fun, but I was fucking 4 Loko fucked up) but the girls couldn’t get in, Why? Because they were 19. Which I think, I think, I may have told them I was as well during our initial convo. We made plans to meet up later, which thanks to a lack of cell phone service and supreme intoxication, never came to fruition.
-Following a wholly underwhelming New Years countdown (sorry again boys), we bounced from whatever shitty bar we were at…except somehow we did it sans-Arab Money. Sometime in the next two hours (which pretty much blurred by) while we people watched and generally behaved like animals, Arab Money wandered around some of the more colorful sections of New Orleans. Sometime during this trip he gleefully called his mother laughing that he was lost. She wisely told him to hang up the phone and get home. He then snapped into “survivor mode,” crouched down to hide while he was looking at directions, and fortunately made it back to the hotel unscathed. Sorry again, buddy.
-Arab Money and I passed out at about 2:30, but Ted Galaxy and Stringer balled out until like 6AM, visiting several ghetto locations, like the Tequila Room, which Mr. Galaxy describes:
In regards to the tequila room, I have never been more worried for the safety of my life. I would have felt safer walking naked in the 9th ward with the "N" word tattooed all over my body than spend another night at the Tequila room. We arrived there around 5ish early New Years, after Stringer heard the sound of black women squealing and records scratching. It must be a DJ thing. We walk into this place and it so packed that you are literally shoulder to shoulder with everyone, and the noxious fumes of every guy wearing excessive amounts of Roc-a-Wear about made me ralph up my third 4loko. This place has the square footage of a double-wide, yet Stringer insisted that we go and join the pit upstairs, which I pleaded not to do. Every song was full of "504" chants, drug deals, and fat black chicks eating chicken fingers in the back. Since apparently all DJs speak the same lingo, String had to talk to the DJ at the place, who looked like Kid Rock and Sandra Bernhard's aborted child. While they discuss vinyl and whatever else bullshit DJs talk about, some kid that literally looked no older than 13 came up to me and said, "Hey cracker, you got any coke?" Which I replied, "Nope, but go to Unique Grocery and they got tons of it." After pleading that I didn't want a "504" tattoo edged into my skin by some kid, Stringer finally decided to leave.
-Before passing out we conducted a little science experiment with the Pedialyte. On day one, we awoke with no hangover. After day 2, nothing but the healing touch of God could have staved off our hangover. Still, Pedialyte definitely helps during extreme partying.
Day 4, Jon Beignets, Jumpers and Jambalaya -The next morning I awoke to the sounds of sirens. I went out to the patio and witnessed about 25 cops cars surrounding our hotel and blocking the street. Arab Money and I decided to investigate, so we bounced downstairs to find about 30 cops milling around, vaguely staring up at the abandoned building across the street with all of it’s windows blown out.
We looked, asked a quick question which was greeted with no response, shrugged our shoulders and set off towards the Unique Grocery for some more Lokos.
-After basically skipping dinner the night before, we were fucking starving and decided to get some Beignets, a Nawlins staple. We located Café Du Monde and it’s long ass line, and noticed some girl in front of us Tweeting. We struck up a conversation, and turns out, she was Twattering about us:
“Dudes next to me in line at Cafe du Monde drinking four loko. At 11 am. ” Celebrity status, y’all.
While chugging 4 Loko, I arranged the excess powdered sugar on our table into monster coke lines as we ate sugary Jon-Beignets (get it?) and sipped on Chiquri coffee. How our hearts didn’t explode I will never know.
-After meandering home, we witnessed Ohio State get a police escort to their bowl practice, so I then stupidly asked a cop if the police presence was all for them. He laughed and said no, but as we rounded a corner toward our hotel we noticed that the cops and a small gaggle of civilians were still looking skyward at the top floors of the abandoned building. Overcome by curiosity and Lokos, I decided to ask what the fuck was going on? I was assured that it was "None of my damn business" and I “should probably quit looking for gossip,” but I gathered enough to assume that it was probably a jumper across the street and that our hotel was not an Al-Queda target.
-As we entered the hotel room Arab Money and I began singing “That shit make me wanna JUMP! JUMP!”
Then on our balcony.
Then we decided that the pool would have the best vantage point, so we moved out there, continuing our serenade.
Then the guy swan dove off the building singing “I Believe I Can FLLLLLLLL-(splat).”
No, that didn’t happen. Thankfully, because then I might have felt a little bit like an asshole.
-Following another awesome Cajun dinner, we retired home to watch the Rose Bowl, but all of us got the ‘Itis and slept through the second half.
-We awoke, dazed though we were, and rallied. Out to Bourbon Street we went, and after a Loko pit stop (which I passed on, as the key ingredient, battery acid, was causing my stomach lining to leak) and a very entertaining dinner at a super hood Popeyes, Stringer was on a mission to get Ted Galaxy to a gay bar. We went, but having bounced for Super Gay Sundays, I really had no interest. But I really had to take a shit, figured gays are notoriously clean and it was too early in the night for there to be too much spunk flung around, so I figured “What’s the worst that could happen?” Well bathroom didn’t have a door and the shitter also didn’t have a door.
To quote Mr. Ford from Frisky Dingo, “There are three things Americans want; cold beer, warm pussy and somewhere to take a shit with a door…because you don’t want the dog looking at you.” So I had to brave the piss covered jon at a regular bar and hover-shit my explosive butt nuggets. Worst shit ever. -I lost the other three during this ordeal, but soon located them atop a balcony hucking beads at girls. Here is how the next hour went:
Me: “Hey, hey you with the tits?”
(Stupid girls looks up, sees beads, shakes head no)
Arab Money: “Show me your fat tits!”
(Fat whore stars to husky walk)
Stringer and Galaxy: “Whore! Fat fucking WHORE!”
And repeat. This backwards ass logic may have hurt us some, but the biggest factors against seeing boobs was the cold wind blowing through and the fact that everyone on the streets was from Ohio or Arkansas.
But if some girl did show tits, or engage in some other slutty behavior, she would not get beads tossed to her, but beads flung at her head Ubaldo-style. At one point Stringer found a severed umbrella stand and threatened to harpoon the next fat bitch he saw.
One random homeboy next to us was so fucking shithoused he was just throwing money down on the street to “see what happened.” Not even poo-dollaring people, just making it drizzle but not at a club. Retarded. Then, out of the blue, he saw some girls and yelled out, “Hey, cool pussy.” Probably the most absurd thing one could say, even compared to the filth spewing from our mouths. We spent about another 30 minutes just yelling, “Hey, cool pussy, man!” at everyone who passed. Oh, and all of this was happening across the street from about 15 cops who didn’t even bat an eye, except when someone brained one of them with some beads. Then they kinda got pissed.
-Going horse, we bailed downstairs to head to Déjà Vu and ran smack dab into the three whores we had met the night before. No matter where I go, there is always some coincidence like this. They were dumb 19 year-old whores, but whores do have vaginas, and vaginas+strip clubs are usually fun. So we got them to tag along. Minus some drama about cover charges at the door, we all ended up inside with what should have hot strippers to watch and easy pussy to entertain, but these whores were so fucking stupid it was pretty much impossible to handle.
My girl told her father (who she was staying with, akward) that she was at a strip club and his advice was “Take pictures and get out of there.” She only followed the first part, and because she was a girl, somehow wasn’t kicked out.
The blonde girl “backed her ass up to the fence” and let Arab Money fingerbang her for a bit, then recognized a “friend” and put on a better show with him than several of the strippers on stage.
The last girl was the dumbest of them all, and not shockingly also the fatty. She whined about how she was too fat to be a stripper and then showed us pictures of her pet…which was fucking RACOOON. Only in fucking Lafayette, LA, where all three of these twats attended Juco (Yuuuuppppp, not smart enough for Louisian-Lafayette).
They finally left, and despite the allure of dumb pussy, the simple fact that a prophylactic error could have meant 18 years of pain and horror overruled the little head.
-Hungry, we stopped at Brother's, basically the South's 7-11, for some more fried chicken, basically the third time in the last 24 hours we had friend chicken. My insides turned to mush as I ate. Leaving Brother's we spotted a fucking Delorian with a Christmas tree tied to the top, grabbed a random drunken Asian and forced him to take a picture. On his third try he took this picture and inspired me to start a blog called "Pictures of Me by Drunks." Should be fun.
-We closed the night with a few Hurricanes at Pat O'Brien's and became entangled with a Texas Threesome, but finally bailed on the night at like 5:30.
Day 5, Hood Tour New Orleans-The next morning our terrible slumber was broken by thousands of Saints fans chanting "Who Dat?" down below on the street as they drunkenly wandered to the Superdome. We all awoke with horrible hangovers, but managed to wander around checking out the gameday scene. Following a lunch at a restaurant where every person working ignored us to watch the game, it was time to see the "real ghettos of New Orleans."
-Which were not at all easy to find. We drove straight through the 9th Ward, right up to the levies, turning at every corner that looked awful, but really couldn't find much besides abandoned houses. a couple crackheads and a few people chilling on stoops. And a very nice, neat hipster area. This fact really pissed off Stringer, who was bound and determined to get us lost in the hood. At one point I quipped "This area is so ghetto that the white guy with dreads didn't even lock his Honda," and I thought Stringer was gonna kill me.
-Working his IPhone and searching "Worst Parts of New Orleans" Stringer took us to the Garden District, which had one block of Hood (Pitbulls, hoopties, cops breaking up some disturbance, hoochies, etc.) and then tons of fancy homes owned by people like Peyton Manning. Stringer was fuming with anger and wouldn't let us leave until we saw a real ghetto, so I started singing random Lil' Wayne verses and came to the realization that we had to go to Wayne's home, Holygrove.
And when we arrived, we finally found our ghetto. Stringer was so excited he rolled down his window and just started snapping pictures like we were at a goddamn zoo. I'm pretty sure the citizens of the 17th Ward were very confused at our presence, therefore helping us escape alive. Also, Arab Money eventually child-locked Stringer's window because he was yelling about Chupacabras and other inappropriate things.
Day 6 & The End
-We then meandered our way back to Houston, with a couple more stops for fried food, and then Arab, Galaxy and I flew home the next day, more exhausted than I have ever been. New Orleans is a crazy place, not for the feint of heart. It is for the real drunks, there is nothing sanitary like Vegas. Still, it is a place that everyone should visit at least once, before you get too old.
I would just recommend going easy on the 4 Lokos, they ain't nothing to fuck with.
