The Cajun, the Kiwi and the little old lady: a New Orleans trip report

[leo doc]

A couple of times each year, my twelve year old son and I make a pilgrimage to South Louisiana where we enjoy redfishing at its finest and I can gain a few pounds by over-indulging in that great Creole cuisine. Also, my boy and I get to do the father/son bonding thing, he doesn’t have to hear his Mom say “No” to any unreasonable request and I feel morally compelled to adhere to the adage of “when in Rome, do as the Romans” by consuming my first six pack of beer before 9:30AM while out on the boat. You have to understand that at that hour it’s at least 93 degrees- sans breeze- in the bayou and no self-respecting coonass is going have a cooler filled with bottled water. (At least I can’t ever recall having seen anything but “Bud-heavy” and cokes in the damn thing; but, then again, I’ll admit the cooler was deep and I never bothered submerging my hand into its’ icy depths to find alternative hydration.)

Now this past Labor Day trip, however, was a bit different. My daughter had spent her spring semester “studying” in New Zealand and, in addition to having become more culturally enriched, she had also become more boyfriend enriched. I had spoken to the lad on the phone a couple of times while she was there and convinced myself that he was “a decent bloke.” I invited him to the States and my son granted me permission to take him and my daughter with us on our sojourn to “south LA.” We arrived in Nor’lens about noon on the Friday before Labor Day, rented the car and went straight to the marina where my son demonstrated his skill of catching blue crab with a rod and reel to his new Kiwi buddy. About an hour later, my boy came inside, and, on his way through the living room to the bathroom, said that Dems (the Kiwi’s nickname) had quickly mastered the art of “crab fishing.” On his way back outside, he added, “but he hasn’t exactly got the hang of taking them off the hook yet.” He had several large Band-Aids in tow.

We all had one swell time over the next two days. My son, as usual, caught the most fish, the biggest fish and the first fish. My daughter, of course, got her annual second-degree sunburn over 91% of her body surface area. I was peeing off the back of the boat every fifteen minutes beginning at 10AM sharp. And paleeeze, don’t underestimate the entertainment value of being on an unshaded fishing boat in that heat and humidity listening to a “true-blue Cajun” trying to teach a Kiwi how to catch redfish after you’ve downed your first six pack. I swear, they were both speaking English but neither would have accused the other of having done so. My only regret was having forgotten the video camera ‘cause it would have been the perfect contemporary remake of “Who’s on first?”

Cajun (speaking to Kiwi): “See dem fish der? You cast dat shrimp right in front of hees nose.”

Kiwi: “Is a demfish good to eat?”

Cajun: “I done tol’ you dat dem fish are de best fishes in de sea to eat.”

Kiwi: “Are they better than a redfish?”

Cajun (speaking softly to me): “Is he a little slow in de head?” Turns to Kiwi: “Lemme see dat rod.” Now expertly casts the bait about a foot in front of a really nice redfish and gets an immediate hook-up. Turns back to Kiwi, hands him the rod, and says, “Now, do you think you can get dat fish to de boat?”

Kiwi: “No worries, mate.” Then proceeds to land his first redfish.

Cajun (while netting the fish): “You gonna eat dat fish tonight?”

Kiwi: “Is a datfish better than a redfish, too?”

I’m still prone to random outbursts of laughter just thinking about it.

At any rate, we finished fishing on Sunday and headed back to the city so that my daughter's boyfriend could be suitably corrupted in the Quarter on his second-to-last-night in the States. I am pleased to report that Bourbon Street left its' indelible mark on the lad, as well as my daughter who managed to procure a hangover the likes of which I've never witnessed. To wit, she was offered- she did not ask- a "pre-boarding" pass by a sympathetic ticket agent for our 5:30 PM flight on Monday evening. (I tell you “for true,” she looked rough.) I later learned that her "condition" had been purchased for the meager sum of "$10 US." Here’s what happened.

When I booked the trip, I had no idea that New Orleans was hosting some sort of "gay pride" convention that very weekend. Truth-to-tell though, I suspected it as soon as we arrived at the hotel and my boy- ever observant of his surroundings- thought it was enormously funny that "two fat chicks were sitting on each other's lap on that bench over there." THAT observation, though, wasn't nearly as funny as what Dem’s said (reader is asked to mentally conjure the North Island New Zealand accent). "Bloody hell, will ya look at that! Those two blokes over there are holding hands and kissin’ each other. New Orleans must be a bit short of shelas, eh?" I took this to mean that New Zealand doesn't have a robust gay community.

As soon as we got settled in the Double Tree, “conveniently located just across the street from Harrah’s,” I suggested that Dem’s and I partake in a little gamb000l; specifically, some 3/6 LHE. You see, I had provided him an admittedly abbreviated starting hands chart, figuring if he’d memorize that, he’d have a pretty decent edge on the clueless that usually populate that game on a holiday weekend. I was wrong. He donked off two racks in just under two hours- racks that had been procured with two of my “fun tickets.” (“Fun tickets,” for those unfamiliar with the vernacular of “Gentlemen’s clubs,” are $100 bills.)

“Time for dinner, Dems.”

We go back to the DoubleTree, collect my kids and enjoy our last supper in New Orleans. We finished eating about 11. Despite a high pressure sales job for the ages, I am proud to report that I refused to take my son "strolling" (his words, not mine) down Bourbon Street at 11 PM on a holiday weekend.

“But Dad, don’t you wanna see if some hot chick will flash her [censored] if I give her these?” He produces about a half dozen strands of beads from his back pocket.

“Where did you learn that? …Nevermind. They only do that during Mardi Gras, anyway.”

“During Mardi Gras they do it for one strand of beads. Don’t you think they’d do it for six on Labor Day?”

On our way back to the hotel he grumbles something about having “wasted” his money and “besides that,” he adds, “they hurt my butt the whole time we were eating dinner.” I reiterate that “we’re not going for a stroll down Bourbon Street,” but, he can watch a PPV movie when we get back. I tell him that I’m going to the casino in the morning and that I need to get some sleep. “Fine,” he says. I am awakened about 1:30 to the sounds of feminine “moaning and groaning.” It appears my son was hell-bent on seeing some [censored] in New Orleans after all.

My daughter and Dems wound up at one of Bourbon Street's jazz bars. Now, according to Dems- whose report I consider beyond reproach- the bartender at this establishment was enamored neither of the city’s visiting gay guests nor of the joint's owner. And, given that my daughter and Dems were the only "hetero" couple in the place, he let them drink for four [censored] hours for "$10 US." My daughter later said that she wishes he'd charged them double and made them pay every time they ordered so that they'd have “busted out” early. Dems labeled him "a good bloke. He's welcome at my pub anytime." I am convinced that Kiwi's can hold their liquor. I am hoping that my daughter learned something that night; something akin to “be careful what you wish for…”

Monday morning finally gets here. Dems has agreed to take my boy to the New Orleans aquarium. I am heading to Harrah’s to find a different sort of fish.

On deck: the LOL (little old lady) and I are HU on the river and “I guess you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

[KurtSF]

Awesome report.

[ QUOTE ]

“During Mardi Gras they do it for one strand of beads. Don’t you think they’d do it for six on Labor Day?”

[/ QUOTE ]

Smart kid you got there.

[budblown]

over/under on your son's first illegitimate child - 18.5

I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt, over.

[Mason Hellmuth]

[ QUOTE ]
On deck: the LOL (little old lady) and I are HU on the river and “I guess you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

[/ QUOTE ]
You played poker with Ed Miller's mom?

[leo doc]

Here's figured it out. You always have to pay more for things that are "out of season."

[leo doc]

I'm going with the over, too. He could spell T-R-O-J-A-N when he was seven.

[leo doc]

If Ed's Mom is 85- but looks like she was "rode hard and put up wet" and dresses like she's going to church when she sits down at the table- yup, reckon it musta been her.

I'm wondering, tho, where'd she get all that "reload" money?

Final chapter in a day or so.

[TobyG]

[ QUOTE ]
Awesome report.

[ QUOTE ]

“During Mardi Gras they do it for one strand of beads. Don’t you think they’d do it for six on Labor Day?”

[/ QUOTE ]

Smart kid you got there.

[/ QUOTE ]
Considering that it's mostly the tourists that'll do it anyway, you can tell them it's Mardi Gras and most of them won't know the difference. I guarantee it wouldn't have taken 6. OTOH, Southern Decadence would have been a bad time to walk around the Quarter wearing beads if you were looking for females.

OP: Where'd you go fishing?

[leo doc]

Lafite; C-Way marina. I was surprised that Katrina didn't take a bigger toll.

[diddyeinstein]

“when in Rome, do as the Romans” by consuming my first six pack of beer before 9:30AM while out on the boat.

Way to make Louisiana proud.