Frenchman and Decauter

Ahh, objectification of women, always a good time. Note that the male statues are doing important manly things, like producing music, while the women are doing important lady things, like flashing their breasts and their butts. Ah, to each their own special skill sets.

Neat.

So it rained and thundered pretty impressively yesterday afternoon, but it cleared out about quarter past six, so we went back into the French Quarter for dinner. We ended up on Frenchman St., which was where ol' James had directed us to go for the music scene later that night. We found what Lizzie aptly called the Somerville of New Orleans, because there were dozens of young people hipstered out, and we saw more than one pill box hat, though my favorite was the leopard skin one. After our vegetable feast, we checked out a bunch of bars which luckily for us didn't have cover charges. They usually had a one-drink minimum, but since we're lightweights and the alcohol is expensive here, we found that you could slip in and slip out without obeying that particular requirement. The first had a band playing some swing, and everyone was dressed up a la 1940, and there was some serious Lindy hop happening. They were no joke, and if you got in their way, injuries were guaranteed. When that band took a break, we decided to leave Lindy-hop land (it felt sort of like we'd crashed a party we weren't invited to) and check out another bar, this one having a pop/rock sort of thing going on.

The problem with this bar was the older gentlemen who were related to the band (their Dads, to be precise, the band members being of the same age as Lizzie and I). They were scumbaggily charging their drinks to their son's tab, and then offered to do the same for us, but we declined, because that's seventh-level douchery, the highest level acheivable. Not hindered by our complete un-impressedness, Dave (as we learned, the more persistent of the two was) continued to annoy us. He asked our occupations, was impressed not so much with me (haha) but with Lizzie's job, and asked if she would be his sugar momma. She said her husband wouldn't like it. Turns out he was a CPP--a certified Payroll professional, and I got to break out this gem: "That's so neat! My Dad worked in Payroll," continuing to tell Dave about my Father's employment history. Prescense of Dad in conversation is the ultimate pick-up buzzkill, especially since this man was probably older than my Dad. Anyway, thanks, Dad!

We fled this bar whilst Dave's back was turned (I heart stealth) and our last stop was actually on Decauter street, and there was a killer bluegrass/honky tonk/rockabilly band playing, and the ass this band kicked was a level of ass-kicking not easily acheived by mere mortals. The lead singer was Gal Holiday, for reals, and the voice that came out of her did not match her 100-pound frame. Anyway, I had to pick up her cd, and perhaps we can all have a two-steppin' ho down when Lizzie and I make it back. Yee-haw!