Madness on Bourbon Street

It's not quite Mardi Gras Day. It's only Monday night, and Bourbon Street has descended into Bacchanalian madness. I am holed up in one corner of The Old Absinthe House drinking beer and hoping to catch a glimpse of the ghost of Jean Lafitte or Mark Twain.


Every now and again, I wander out into the madness to snatch a bead from the air. I am a native, so girls showing their breasts and boys dressed like girls are just not very exciting anymore.


The Old Absinthe House has satellite radio, and they've chosen a 70s channel. Sad that I know nearly every song they play. Sad that I dance to all of them. I convince myself that I am limbering up for Mardi Gras day.