RED RIVER OF THE NORTH VS. NORTH EAST

Life often has quick and unexpected twists...well at least in my sorted multi-verse. Each day this week I have watched the level of the bayou rise. It sounds devilishly ominous to talk of the Red River of the North, far away in the Hellish  lands of Manitoba. The sever winter snows threaten to break the levees...and one can't blame it on the rain or Led Zeppelin lyrics. Migration entered the new scheme of things, a flight plan is dually in order. My Southern Sabbatical is at a sudden end. Decidedly I'm headed to the North West and then back Eastward. The only thing that would make this more appropriate, if Gargoyles carried me back to Gotham. A last Saturday night on the town was filled with sentimentality. Our venue seemed like a less glamorous version of Unsexy & the City. To compound matters worse, it seemed populated with rejects from the Jersey Shore. Has America become that bland and gentrified in it's plumage, who request a hip hop soundtrack for a warbling mating call? The night spot filled with bad tunes and equally bad fitting halter top dresses. Constantly people bark up the wrong tree, it's evermore difficult to watch yards upon yards of desperate behavior. Thoughts ran rampant through my mind like distorted rabbits feet. Maybe it's an effect of the pure Jack Daniles unadulterated without vile corn syrup. Amid the blandness, my perspective has me on glorious tangents. Without malice imagination leads me to thoughts that stem above the plexiglas ceiling. Perhaps it's the second Micheal Jackson song in twenty minutes, I'm ready to break the Dj's jaw and glass nipple. Distraction grips, a girls in one of those ill fitting tube to dresses stumbles to the bar to order 5 Lemon Drop shots. She had a forehead so broad, one could have spread knives full of mayonnaise across it's surface. Thankfully the whiskey inoculated me from adverse effects, or perhaps it was the distorted rabbits feet. Certainly these last memories will let me depart warmly, they may even prompt me to return...but it's time to return home.

THE QUESTIONABLE BEASTIALITY OF THE BAYOU

Before squat launching myself to the bayou for my Southern Sabbatical, I heard unimaginable tales of foreboding. One axiom in particular was, "New Orleans will either chew you up and spit you out, or dig her claws into you." Such claims and monstrous sounding pleasures have completely eluded me for 9 months. Where does this proverbial Confederate Jabberwocky reside? Has it suffered some crippling orthodontia and had it's South paws declawed? There are telltale signs of it's whereabouts, the abundant alcohol embalmed husks that walk the streets of the French Quarter. Temptation in a Hand Grenade, the radioactive green plastic vessels speedily anesthetize countless victims. Though back to mastication and hooked appendages, I remain unmarred and not fully impressed by this beast. There doesn't seem to be enough lockjaw or lockstitching to even get my mouth wet. For if there was, this protagonist, one Gothic Yankee would scornfully spit in the mouth of this Gulf for being absent. Oh lament, varmint of vexation...have you crawled off in fear?  Perhaps it's just that time of the month, as it occurs to me menstruating below sea level isn't natural. Explanations are always hard to come by, though answers always seem to abound.

These days I find myself doing more head scratching than a dandruff convention. The skids of Southern culture are either termite infested or got turned into bar stools. It's highly possible that the beast was injured during hurricane Katrina along with so many American dreams. It would have been more prudent to turn those bar stools into crutches. Hardly an affective use of man power, it obvious that would have hampered the rebuilding efforts. While the city is limping along, the only thing people are in a hurry for is getting to the next drink. New Orleans still remains a small town, albeit one that throws the biggest block parties around. While there is nothing like the carnival season in my experience, though in the words of Hunter S. Thompson "Things just haven't gotten weird enough for me yet."

WHATEVER BRINGS YOU DOWN HERE WON'T KILL YOU

Some things just seem to be quintessential to get a proper experience of New Orleans. Sampling the local cuisine is obviously one of the must do things, so I ate. There were menus that boasted family recipes that were over one hundred years old, so I sampled. Gourmandizing the Gulf would obviously grow to be one of my favorite pass times. First there was the more typical food fanfare, such as fried green tomato Po'Boys with shrimp rémoulade. Other local favorites would be red beans in rice, stick to your ribs tasty. It was a good introduction before moving through other touristy things, such as gumbo and Southern Fried alligator bits. Venturing still deeper into my exotic eating exploration, I'd find delight in Louisiana Crabmeat Cakes with Crawfish cream sauce. Pushing still further, Cajun alligator sausages "Atachfalya" according to the menu mad my jaws snap with gator pleasure. Unknowingly another be a creature would that would be provide the pièce de résistance, my ultimate favorite would be the turtle soup.
One of the next tests for local acceptance is if you're fond of the local brew, so I drank. The beer of choice seems to be Abita Amber, now I took to it in an instant. Most of the times it's better than the drinking water and goes down more easily, that's why they invented the stuff in the first place. My findings at large would be it's best in the bottle as opposed to on draft, so I drank. Another touted local beverage is Sazerac, it's New Orleans origins stem back to pre-Civil War times to the 1830's. Legends report it to be the the first cocktail invented in America, though the recipes vary. It's a drink that's done neat, for some odd reason they fill the glass with ice and absinthe only to discard it. Then they do a muddled mixture of Rye-Sugar-bitters and lemon peel garnish. Wasted absinthe aside, in the end my  concern was it had whiskey...so yet again I drank.

NATIVE EASY

Instantaneously I was ushered in as a Big Easy native. Numerous people would swear by the fact they had either seen or met me before. This trend began only hours after arriving in town, all I can easily assume is it will extend into the future. One particular native girl, whose family had been here since 1732 about the time the city became a Royal colony of France, greeted me the best. "Welcome home" she said "may your journeys away be infrequent and not for long." With that sort of stamp of approval on Friday the 13th everything seemed set.
To me my arrival was like a fist full of voodoo, ready made to haunt the French Quarter. Since so many people instantly  claimed familiarity with me, it sent my imagination a haunting. What if there was a Voodoo Zombie Priest that I resembled that walked the Quarter late nights? Baron Samedi where are you?
What I knew was, the dark culture here was going to be a sure fire inspiration. My pointed shoes were already headed in the right direction.

FRIDAY THE 13TH EVER AFTER

From Gotham to the Gulf was how I set out my journey. I knew it should be a hot day mid August and Friday the 13th would provide my fuel. Running on absolutely no sleep I would leave my native Manhattan behind. Searching for fun and adventure & few dollars more, it was off to New Orleans. Upon first arrival, site unseen even, I was welcomed by a purple house. My sleeping chamber would also contain walls and floors of that same Royal Hue. Squitas were in a buzzing & biting frenzy, fastening up a crimson net around the bed was in high order. This canopy would supply some protection while dually making me feel like a little princess. This next month was surely going to b a challenging in more ways that one. But I was welcomed in by my housemates, two lovely women that broke out  2  bottles of Champagne, Sausages, Goat Cheese & ridgy potato chips.