New Orleans smells.

Yep, I said it.

From the minute you walk off the plane, your olfactory senses are overwhelmed.   I can’t quite put my finger on what that smell is, but it’s got to be a combination of decadence and desperation.

And the closer you get to the French Quarter, the more pungent it is.  I foolishly decided to visit here on St. Patty’s Day.  Since I’ve never been to New Orleans, it seemed like the perfect occasion.  It would be chaotic and fun, but not an insane mad house like last week’s Mardi Gras.

New Orleans is like a year-round Spring Break for adults.  People who usually show strong self-restraint are suddenly doing keg stands in the middle of the street.  Mild-mannered women will arbitrarily walk up to you and flash their mammary glands in order to score beads.  If they don’t get beads, God help you.  It has some weird Pavlovian response that someone should have warned me about.

By 2pm yesterday, I had been offered sex, drugs, sex for drugs, drugs for sex and something called a Hand Grenade.  (I found out later it’s considered New Orleans strongest, most powerful drink.  I may attempt it today.)

Since I can’t hold my liquor, I went home to nap around 4pm.  Smartest move I ever made.  By 5pm, I was rarin’ to go for Round II.  I’m down here for a surprise BDay party for one of my friends, Matt.  Not only was he genuinely surprised when several of us magically appeared on Bourbon Street, he was even MORE giddy when eight of us showed up.  In varying stages of alcohol poisoning.

To say Matt has the attention span of a gnat would be an affront to gnats everywhere.  (“Look, a voodoo doll!”)  And when we all started showing up, Matt became increasingly happy and increasingly ADHD.  (“I’m hungry!”)  To get nine people to do Matt’s bidding was like going from 90mph to reverse in .09 seconds.  (“Y’all, let’s go in here!  It’s 3 for 1 beers!”)

I like to stand back and people watch.  And there is no better place than New Orleans.  It’s the single biggest cesspool of humanity in America.  Remember America’s opening tagline?  You know, the one that’s on the Statue of Liberty?  “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses …”

Well, they all ended up here … and they’re drunk … and they want nothing more than to puke on your open-toed sandal.  You simply MUST visit.  The mayhem continues in Part II (Deux?) of my blog.