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Friday, January 20, 2012

New Orleans Strongest Drink

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Several times a year, my friends and I pack my poor little white escort to her maximum capacity and take off for a long weekend. With at least five bags, four pillows, three cell phones and two packs of cigarettes, we take off in a southern direction with a piece of paper in the back window that reads “New Orleans or Bust”. Each trip starts off with the stories from the last few trips. Most of them revolve around our drinking adventures. Specifically why we should not be allowed to drink Hand Grenades.


Let me begin by explaining what a Hand Grenade involves. While no one, except the people who make them, is quite sure what exactly is in one of the sapid green concoction, we have been able to isolate several of the main ingredients. At least 5 types of alcohol including vodka, gin, tequila, rum and everclear are mixed with an ectoplasmic green liquid, poured into a 16 ounce plastic cup with pictures of animated grenades topped with a vibrantly colored plastic hand grenade. The pure burn of the drink as you sip or slurp through the straw pails in comparison to the dizzy, giddy feeling you experience shortly after the glass is half empty.


With that said, let me start with our first trip to N’Awlins. On very little sleep, we all piled into my car at 10 pm on December 0th and took of for New Years Eve 1. After a thirteen hour drive, the excitement of the adventure prevented us from napping upon arrival. So, with only the few hours of restless sleep we got in the car, off to the French Quarter we paraded. My current roommate, Chad, who was or local tour guide at the time, announced our first stop would be The Tropical Isle for a special drink. Being trusting souls, we followed him through the crowded street forming a human chain, linked hand to hand, until we arrived under the neon sign that announced “New Orleans’ Most Powerful Drink”. This of course seems more of a challenge than a threat to a year old bar fly. Without any further ado, 5 glasses were purchased and 5 people proceeded to guzzle on their straws until one by one the unmistakable sound of a straw sucking air filled the street. At this point, I started to notice just how many people were around us. They hung from the balconies above and stood shoulder to shoulder on the streets. I became aware that the age-old tradition of showing your breasts for beads was alive and well all around. Being a nice girl from northern Indiana I gawked in awe as women large and small lifted their shirts in an attempt to lure someone on the balcony to look their way and toss the prized chain of shiny plastic beads from above. Laughing to myself, we move further down the street. The more we pushed through the crowds, the more I wanted the beads. Finally, we reached our destination of the evening camped out at the corner of Bourbon and St Ann. I looked across the intersection and noticed a balcony full of people with armloads of beads. By this time, the hand grenade had worked its magic and I had forgotten about the nice, well-mannered girl from Indiana. I had become a drunken tourist in the French Quarter. I stumbled into the street, look a man with a megaphone straight in the eye while he shouted “Beads for Boobs” and lifted my shirt. With the slight breeze hitting my bare skin, my sense of reason returned and I jerked my shirt back down only to look up and see a string of plastic green dice falling from the sky. I reached out, pulled them from the air, placed them around my neck and scurried back to my friends on the street corner. That was my first and last “showing” for beads. My companions still laugh about it when they walk into my room and see the beads hanging from the hook in the corner.


Our second trip almost topped the first one. This time it was my roommate, Jer, who took the prize for drunken tourist. This being Jer’s first trip to the Big Easy made him a splendid target for the Hand Grenade. This was our first trip during the summer months. Memorial Day proved to be a bit less crowded in the Quarter, but the sights were much prettier. Well-built men of all shapes and sizes seemed to lose more and more clothing as the day progressed. By the time we arrived at the now familiar sign, half the people in the street were wearing less clothing than most Hoosiers wear to bed. It didn’t take Jer long to start drooling. We paid the bar keep for our nectar and wandered back to our familiar corner. Without even being ½ way through the drink, Jer decided it was time to sit down. He proceeded to plop on the curb and almost spill the precious contents of the plastic cup into the gutter. At this point, the rest of us realized perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to have given him the sapid brew. Shortly there after, he proceeded to start yelling comments at the passers by like “Damn that’s a fine ass”, “Whoo, come to daddy” and “You could bend me over any day”. We weren’t quite sure whether to laugh, cry or run. Yet again, the green liquid had made its mark on a tourist.


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Yet, of all the hand grenade stories we have, my cohort Ben takes the cake. This past New Years was his first time in the Veux Carre’. Since the Hand Grenade had become somewhat of a traditional drink, we headed off to the mighty glowing sign. This New Years eve, the Quarter was extra packed due to LSU’s football ranking that placed them in the Sugar Bowl, which is played in new Orleans on New Years Day. That mixed with their rivals from Illinois State made for quite the street scene. Every block was filled with twenty-somethings screaming “LSU RULES”, “LSU DROOLS”, “ ISU RULES” “ISU DROOLS” The energy bursting from every street corner was almost as intoxicating as the green liquid. As the rivals pushed and shoved to get closer to the small opening from where the mighty drink is purchased, we waited, watched and became part of the human sea. Finally we reached the window, placed our order, and started the arduous journey back through the crowd to our corner from many a trip before. As we made short work of the 16 oz drink, Ben became louder and louder. His laughter was almost insane. We all decided to move off of Bourbon Street and venture to some of the other bars in the area. Our trusty tour guide, Chad, directed us to a small bar named the Corner Pocket. As we entered through doors with blacken glass, I realized, yet again, that I was too trusting of a tourist. The bar was full of men. This didn’t faze me, but when I realized the physical bar had half naked men strutting around on its wooden top, I realized that the evening was about to get a lot more interesting. Once we had been in the bar for about an hour, I needed some fresh air, so Chad and I stepped outside. After about 15 minutes, we walked back through the doors to be greeted by the sound of Ben’s shrill voice screaming from the back corner, “RICKY RICKY RICKY”. I looked at Chad with panic in my eyes when I realized Ricky was one of the strippers and Ben was now feeling the explosive power of the Hand Grenade. After getting Ricky’s attention, Ben tipped him and we decided it was time to leave. The drink had taken its toll, and Ben needed to just be taken home before he managed to get us all arrested.


We are in the process of planning another trip to New Orleans slated for March of 00. This time, it appears that we are going to be taking at least two carloads full of people who have yet to experience the might explosion. They’ve all heard the stories of my half nudity, Jer’s obscenities, and Ben’s laughter. Yet, they all seem to think there is no way the drink could affect them the same way. Oh what fun and entertainment this trip will provide as we lead them to the window under the glowing sign that reads “New Orleans’ Most Powerful Drink”. Thank heavens for blackmail pictures.





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