Girl Gone Wild

By Alexis Jhamb | Sunday, March 23, 2003

After reaching my threshold for -30-degree weather, I knew it was time to plan a weekend away from Dartmouth and head to New Orleans. While I was quite clearly missing the Mardi Gras chaos which would be breaking out in the French Quarter just weeks later, I wanted to make the most of my visit. My guide for the weekend was Tinsley, a recent Dartmouth alumna doing graduate work at Tulane, who promised to keep me from surfacing in any of the 'Girls Gone Wild' series videos.

We drove from the Louis Armstrong Airport into the heart of the Big Easy in a hot pink Geo Metro. Along the way, we passed through a number of rural communities lined with mobile home communities. Among them was Kentwood, LA, birthplace of pop star Britney Spears. In the French Quarter, the French colonial homes and Creole-style cottages—with their pastel colors and quaint balconies—reminded me that I was far from Hanover.

Next door to the Quarter, Tinsley noted the run-down neighborhood—tenement houses and all—called Storyville. Around the turn of the century, Storyville began to serve as the city's center for entertainment, both of the musical and sexual varieties. So famed were the houses of ill repute that visitors could purchase the Blue Book, a directory listing the names and addresses of all Storyville's prostitutes. In 1917, when venereal disease outbreaks amongst American naval officers were traced to their visits to Storyville, the Secretary of the Navy effectively dismantled the legal loopholes that allowed prostitutes to run their businesses. Today, none of these 'sporting palaces' remain, though 'topless and bottomless' gentlemen's clubs have popped up on Bourbon Street.

Once settled into her apartment, Tinsley's first job as hostess was to treat me to a classically rich New Orleans lunch at the Palace Cafe, on the outskirts of the Central Business District. We started out with several rounds of Kir Royals and pan-fried oysters and then moved on to some serious seafood. Following lunch, we walked through the Quarter. This six-by-thirteen block neighborhood occupies the bounds of the original city of New Orleans. Now the most popular tourist area, it is no longer the poorest neighborhood in the city, but it does retain a distinctly fringe feel. NOLA's goth and bohemian crowds stake claims here, as evidenced by the offerings of the Quarter's shops and their leather and hemp-clad clientele with a penchant for 'magickal' herbs and palm readings.

In the spirit of the area, I perused the wares of Starling, a shop serving all the needs of the modern Wiccan, filled with 'magickal books and crafts.' The Reverend Claudia Williams, a hostile looking 30-something with dyed black-hair and black, gnawed nails, greeted us with a cheerful 'Blessed be,' a contradiction from the grunt I expected from her. While she is licensed to do weddings, her specialty is palm reading, which goes for a cool $75 (and as a plus for animal lovers, she does pet readings on the side).

Unwilling to part with an excessive chunk of money for Claudia's reading, I decided to have my tarot cards and palm read—a bargain at $10—in Jackson Square by one of the many squatters who set up shop on the sidewalk. My reader, a short chubby unshaven middle-aged man with Mardi Gras beads around his neck, began by commenting on how men have treated me poorly. 'Not to my knowledge,' I told him.

'No matter,' he said. 'They will.' He went on to examine my palm and tell me that I will soon come close to death in a car, based a tiny spoke off my lifeline.

'Not an airplane?' I asked.

'No, I see a car...and a cell phone,' he said and proceeded to lecture me on the distracting dangers of cell phones, although I do not own one. However, he saw money and success in my future and had me on my way in a matter of minutes. I was disappointed in my reading, but for $10, it was roughly what I had anticipated.

After another grease-laden meal in the Quarter, we made a few rounds of Martinis at Tinsley's apartment on Barracks Street as we prepared to go out for the night. Tonight, she assured me, would be special. She walked meto the Lantern Bar on Royal Street. It was my maiden voyage to a drag show and the bar's regulars found the sight of two straight girls so striking that they treated us to several rounds of powerful Long Island Iced Teas. I soon found what I'm supposing is drag bar humor, or truth. The signs over the restrooms read 'Men' in blue lettering and 'Others' in pink lettering. Upon entering the 'Others' side, I found the toilet-seat up; the queens use 'Others.'

With a few more drinks consumed, I quickly made the acquaintance of 'Eva Las Vegas,' who reminded me of a 60-year-old white man with a beer gut, excepting of course the blond wig, poorly attempted make-up, and 'bosoms' of wadded tissues. Eva demanded my attention and tried to make conversation about the stylistic differences between Shania Twain's older music and the new album, about which I knew nothing. She also insisted that I listen attentively when she went on stage to sing Tammy Wynette's 'Stand By Your Man.' During her performance, I noticed the telltale runny-nose and frequent sniffles. Go figure.

When the music started, a trio of drag queens lip-synched 'It's Raining Men.' Men in head-to-toe leather grinded with one another in front of the stage and mouthed the lyrics along with the queens. The lead of the trio was Miss Ti-ti, an aptly named queen who could easily be mistaken for a 'real' woman. After her song, she came over to chat and revealed her secret—real breasts! She had undergone an operation a few years previous and now proudly carried her silicone implants, her 'best friends.' With real breasts, a healthy number of admirers tucked dollar bills into her dress, making her the envy of the queens. Ti-ti has no day job—she drags fulltime, bringing home decent wages on a good night's performance.

During an intermission, I chatted up Princesse Stephaney, whose business card read, 'Miss Louisiana Leatherette 2003,' about her choice of costume—a bright green 1950s-style gown, with white gloves up to her elbows. After a thirty minute conversation about her day job as a 'personal assistant' to one of NOLA's real estate 'moguls' and where a girl can find a good girdle these days, I was convinced of her unique feminine fashion sense.

I awoke the next day before noon with a Bourbon Street buzz still hitting me hard, but it was time to fill up on more heart attack-inducing treats. Tinsley drove us through the Garden District's white-washed mansions to a Sunday jazz brunch at Commander's Palace. Emeril, the Food Channel's golden child, started out at Commander's before opening his own restaurant, also in the Garden District. I found the standard to be a five-course brunch, with a healthy dose of mimosas and a trumpet player at your side. After a lengthy food coma and hangover recovery period, it was time to hit Bourbon Street again.

Members of a Baptist Church stood on Bourbon's corners shouting Biblical references at the passersby and handing out 'How to get to Heaven from New Orleans' pamphlets en masse. The pamphlet outlined the basic notions of Christian sin and redemption, stressing, 'We must repent our sin.' No kidding. With the sort of vice going on in this city—sex acts occurring quite openly in the streets, an observed predisposition for alcoholism, and one of the highest murder rates in the nation—a strong faith in the hereafter is no laughing matter.

Girl Gone Wild

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