N’awlins pt.1 or How I Admitted That I Am a Stalker

Drunken Diaries Flashback #1
I didn't have a computer handy through all this stuff so you'll just have to accept the flashback episode.

I’m pretty convinced that New Orleans is a magical city. Where else is it okay to bring in your own booze to an IHOP? Where else can you walk up to a cop piss-drunk and ask, “So what exactly can you get arrested for here?” And where else is it entirely normal to see men walking around in bubble-wrap dresses? Exactly. But for this trip, it wasn’t the waterfalls of liquor or scantily clad men that drew me to the city—well, not entirely. For this trip it really was the music. A friend, who I’ll refer to simply as “T” from this point on, and I have such a serious obsession with Grace Potter and the Nocturnals that we decided to make the 8.5 hour drive from Kentucky to watch the band play at a festival for maybe an hour. But let’s back up to where I admit that I’m a stalker.

Day/Night #2 in N’awlins: The night after we arrived and walked past a girl making out with a tree (and refused to go with her friends and even acknowledged that she was making out with a tree), we scouted the town looking for the Blue Nile. It’s a cute little place just off the French Quarter with live shows and, more importantly, where we expected to find Grace and the boys that night. Via the wonderful tracking tool, Twitter and the instant text to phone feature, I received by personal message that we could expect band to appear at the bar that night. So after we walked to 2 miles to the bar to find that they didn’t open until 9 (it was 3), we traveled back to a little hole in the wall that they call Coyote Ugly. Six hours later after bar dancing, body shots, and an adjusted $100 tab, we staggered to the Blue Nile with a coyote. After a few off-key choruses off Cheap Trick’s “I Want You to Want Me,” we made it to bar around 10. Scanning and lapping through the crowd a couple times told us that the band wasn’t there yet. So we camped out at the seats closest to the door. Too bad that our companion wasn’t as determined to catch Grace as we were. Like all coyotes, she was hungry for a sandwich at the most inconvenient time. Thus begins the great sandwich search. First of all, with the amount of alcohol consumed in this city, you would think sandwiches would be everywhere. Not the case.

So after the great sandwich journey where I failed but T triumphed, the cosmos must have been aligned because the band arrived shortly after. T catches them first, and after a short panting attack she tells me. I vaguely remember tracking them down to snap some pictures, but I do remember this quite clearly: we’re chatting with the drumming Nocturnal, Matt. I’m almost playing it cool until my shining moment when I casually slur, “Yeah, we’re following you.” WTF. I’m notorious for leaving the main details out when telling a story. In this case, it was that we got their Twitter update and decided to come out to the bar. Instead, I have a complete restraining order moment and say that shit. I must say that he took it very well, and may possibly be the coolest guy ever because he still bought me a beer after my inner uber-creep came out to play. And it didn’t stop there. Cat (AKA Catherine Popper, bassist extraordinaire) was a victim of my all day binge. “Hey, Cat, slappy da bass!” Jesus, won’t someone slap some duct tape over my mouth already?!

I definitely made a rule that night to not drink that much when I plan on talking with my favorite band members. I already say the dumbest shit when sober. And I know they’re just people--people I worship. However, I definitely broke that rule the next night when we weaseled our way into backstage VIP passes. Well, hell. What can you do?

80s Bars = Best Friend to Bad Dancers

Finally! I can cross one thing off on my list of ridiculous things that I doubt I’ll ever accomplish, but would increase the personal badass meter if I actually did. During a weekend of celebrating college graduation, a year-and-a-half late I might add, the crew hit some of the bars in downtown Evansville, IN (I add the entire city, state description thinking that maybe one day I’ll have readers picking this up in the entire book form from a bargain aisle at Barnes and Noble). One of my favorite bars features an all night 80s dance party in the basement. So what was so badass? We managed to gather a small crowd of supporters and mostly laughers during an interpretive dance routine—that’s right. Try this out: dig into your music collection, find Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” and try really hard not to add literal movement to the lyrics. If you don’t find yourself mimicking prayer or forming “OOohh, OOohh” fists in choir salvation then there is something wrong with you. Now try this with any other song, and note that the 80s provide a great selection for interpretation. Imagine a whole night of this debauchery. Fan-freakin’-tastic!