Louisiana dreaming

Tasers and being, quote, "fucked by the long dick of the law".

These were two things we viewed with fear and reverence. Moreso, however, could these sentiments be found with Otto, something I attribute to both his diminutive stature and his encyclopedic knowledge of COPS. Indeed, as surely as Bear Grylls will eat an insect for protein and energy, the US police will taser you - at least, so went the thought process of Otto. 

Thus it was that when the blue and red lights flashed in the mirror as we were cruising down the Texan highway that Otto visibly clenched, his entire body tightening in anticipation of the sort of fucking usually reserved for ethnic minorities on TV.

With four wheels of Texas justice bearing down behind us, it was with confusion that we realised the impending dicking was actually reserved for us. I can thankfully recount that Yin to Otto's Yang, Kip the cucumber was driving, his all-black aviators symbol of his suave and ice cool disposition. 

"Excuse me officer, what seems to be the problem?"

Much as I wanted to ask this and fulfill my American police fantasy, I had been relegated to the back seat for my allocated nap time post-driving session. Not even Kip got to utter this time honoured offering of weak-kneed supplication, as the officer merely signaled for him to emerge from the Gruel.

Pretending that we, like Kip, were unruffled by the circumstances, Otto and I stole furtive glances at that which was taking place behind the car, but could ascertain little. Giving away nothing, it took Kip's return to the car with a small piece of paper before we could work out what had gone down. 10 miles above the speed limit, Kip had been coasting at 80 in a 70 zone, the only barrier between his pinched sphincter and the powerful member of the law a foreign driver's license and his look of boyish innocence. With merely a warning we escaped.

So our peaceful drive to Lake Charles, Louisiana, was a moment of group introspection and revelation as we concluded that no more were the speed limits optional.

Pleasantly unlike our police encounter, Lake Charles was a positively delightful place to be. Arriving in the afternoon and promptly finding our Holiday Inn - one fitted with some most sumptuous bedding and cable TV - it was at my not unforceful behest that we went back out to the road to visit the namesake of our destination, the lake. 

Arriving at a lakeside filled with boardwalks, yet keen for a swim, I excitedly asked a passing lady whether it was possible to do so. With the sort of chuckle only a husky native lady of the south could muster as she gazes upon a breathlessly enthusiastic honky, she warned that embarking upon such a dip would be most reckless given the snakes in the reeds near where we were. 

With the appropriate deference to the law of the lady, we relocated to a more swim worthy location where I discovered that Lake Charles is a bit like a giant stagnant puddle, its warm surface belying a murky green interior of dubious purity. Nonetheless, it was from this makeshift beach that I noticed Steamboat Bill's. In what would prove to be a crowning and memorable occasion of my gut's intuition trumping the negative orgones and pretense of Kip and Otto's misplaced fears of Creole loving, it was here that, after much cajoling, I finally managed to drag the unwilling troupe to dinner.

It only took as long as 4 pounds of crawfish take to come to the table in all their spicy, steaming glory, for apprehensions to fade and the requisite apologies to be offered as a feast of untold gluttony unfolded in the cracking of heads, snapping of claws, and peeling of tails. 

So we left Lake Charles splattered in crawfish juices and with Otto looking like he was seriously reconsidering vegetarianism if this is what suffering can make things taste like. 

Buoyed by crawfish, our trip across to New Orleans the next day was nevertheless one tempered by anticipation of our hostel: 60% rated and reportedly staffed by a crack addict surrounded by caged birds. Upon arrival the latter of these concerns was well and truly realised, our arrival greeted by the inarticulate skeleton of a man barely able to cogitate his way around handing out room keys. 

What proved to be of more concern, however, was the sprawled form we found in our room listening to gangsta rap on the speaker of his mobile phone. Mac, as he would introduce himself to us later, first made our acquaintance by inquiring as to our status regarding the possession of various substances and whether we would like to buy some. Not the greatest first impression to be sure, but it would be rash to jump to judgment regarding someone simply because of their baggy clothes and grills. Yes, he actually had grills. 

Mac actually seemed quite nice as we furthered our acquaint with him, and the rest of the hostel, while slightly grubby and staffed by a platoon of backwater rednecks - one of whom had a tattoo below a poorly stenciled eagle reading "Whereever I may rome" - while rough around the edges, was perfectly hospitable. 

Eager to explore the town and sample some more Creole cuisine, we headed out towards the French Quarter, pausing to visit a restaurant for some gumbo, red beans and rice, jambalaya, and etoufille - all of which were delightful. Not quite so delightful, however, was Bourbon Street, what we later dubbed the Vegas of the south. Riddled with the same sort of diseased looking crowd of its Nevada counterpart; US-bogans, old people, strippers, bros, and the homeless, it was a seething pit of flashing colours, beads and grenades - a heady mix of ever clear and mystery green drink in a novelty cup - proclaimed the strongest drink in New Orleans!

Seeking respite from this onslaught on the senses, the comforting nuances of a jazz bar were sought. With Fritzel's all stars jamming out about 1 foot from our seats, it was quite a delightful experience. Moreover, having peered in on several outfits on the way, it seemed we had found a particularly talented bunch with Kip so inspired he vowed to buy a clarinet. By far the stand out performer was the big fat black man on the drums and his dulcet voice - just the sort of jazz one longs for.

With the evening winding on and seeking to escape the tyrannical bar woman at the jazz club who hounded the crowd for more rounds of exorbitantly priced beer the second they were finished, all the while staring and keeping track of liquid levels, we met Mac on the street as he went in search of "big booty" and followed him in to a club. Filled with creepy old people and the variously deformed, there wasn't much of Mac's promised booty.

It was only when Kip tapped me on the shoulder as I contemplated the sportscenter rolling news bar that things turned for the better. Indeed, as I spun around I noticed Otto was once again having his glasses taken off by a bar wench, only this time instead of re-dressing him as in Vegas, she forcibly motor boated him. For those unfamiliar with the motorboat, this involves one party nuzzling the breasts of another party, usually willfully and under their own volition. In this case, however, it appeared to be rape. What followed was a series of grinding motions, another forced motor boating, and then the insertion of several tubes of bright liquid down the throat of the comely lass, whereupon Otto was encouraged to drink them from her mouth, still inserted. The price for such loveliness? $8. 

The look on Otto's face, however, was priceless. A mixture of shame, disgust, and horror that I had witnessed this and vigorously photographed it contorted his usually jovial visage in to a morose hang-dog look of pervasive and unending sickness. Little did he know that the next day he would wake with an allergy rendering his eyes red and swollen. I didn't know people could be allergic to breasts.

There seemed little way my night could be any more entertaining after witnessing this most deviant of displays, nevertheless, it managed to be just that. With the sort of naivety one does not expect of a man who handled the member of the Texan police force with such ease, Kip, too, fell prey to the marauding waitress. Wallowing in the sloppy seconds of boob rape and an aggressive looking grind. 

Kip's look of shocked and unwitting violation was only matched by my look of rapture. 

Much of New Orleans passed in the same manner, wandering Bourbon Street and the much classier - in a still down home N'Orleans way - Frenchman's Street, as well as nosing around the city and down the Ol' Miss. We also enjoyed for some authentic Po'Boys at Mother's, an institution of the city, where one can order a debris po'boy, with the chunks of beef that fall off the main cut as it roasts served in a sandwich in a puddle of roasting gravy. Delicious. 

We also met some rather entertaining characters at the hostel, one of whom turned out to be a sci-fi turned indie flick actress, as well as her cemetery enthusiast friend. There was also a Japanese guy with a really grungy portable amped guitar, who, late one night jammed with Otto for the entertainment of those sitting around the outdoor area. The New Orlean's jazz spirit was alive and well. 

On the down side we awoke one morning only for Otto to realise his iPhone had been stolen. Charging over night, Mac, having returned to the room at 5am and rumbled around, had then left, ostensibly to catch an early morning train, but in reality snaffling Otto's phone to no doubt later pawn it for some extra drug/grill money.

Travel insurance expenditure vindicated, leaving New Orleans we headed up to Little Rock for the night for no more reason than to take on the Shut-Up Sauce challenge at a barbecue place. Arriving on a Sunday, we found that the place was closed both then and on the Monday, thus rendering the impetus of our visit null and void. To our benefit at least, Kip had managed to book us a 4 star hotel for little more than a hostel would have cost, had one existed in Little Rock. So it was that I took advantage of all the amenities, and snaffled free water bottles and fruit, before we all took a few moments of our time to enjoy a steam and some whisky in the gym sauna. 

So it is that I find myself in Memphis, writing this out and watching Kip's underpants rotate in a washing machine and contemplating a 7 and 1/2 pound burger for dinner.