The Barryfest Chronicles

I think that you can tell a lot about a city by the way it rings in the New Year.  Minneapolis, for example, is a fun enough time but not really anything to write home about.  Chicago, on the other hand, offers plenty to do but your options can be limited by the bitter cold winters and spotty public transportation system.  And then there is New York, which is more or less a crowded, expensive theme park.

While especially apparent on the last day of the year, I think the statements above hold true for their respective cities at all times.  So, after getting intimately familiar with New Orleans over the past 12 months, I cut my holiday family time short to make sure I could test my “New Year’s Eve as a microcosm” theory down in the Big Easy.

Now, New Year’s Eve is nothing if it is not another excuse for revelry.  And when it comes to revelry, if you give New Orleans an inch, in one magnificent swoop she will take a mile, your favorite watch and every clean pair of tube socks you’ve got in your top drawer.  Luckily, she will return them before you know they are even gone.  New Orleans is sneaky like that.

So it goes without saying I got an adult dose of this place’s capacity for debauchery on December 31, 2008.  Bourbon Street gets as wild on New Year’s Eve as it does during any night of Mardi Gras, and I took in a bird’s eye view of the entire mess from a private balcony which was attached to the sweet party room my friend rented out for the evening.  For better or worse, though, this party suite – complete with a full bar, pool tables, hors d’oeuvres, and thousands of plastic beads for us to throw at female party-goers that were willing to make out with each other – was attached to a strip club.

That’s right.  I can assure you that when most people saw the address on the invitation (“433 Bourbon Street, right above Babe’s Cabaret”) they assumed, like I did, that this was a private venue that just so happened to be above a gentleman’s club of ill repute; that the entrance to our enclave of festivity would be around the corner or at worst next to the one used by the cretins that would choose to spend New Year’s Eve getting lap dances; that we would be cordoned off from the minor league riff raff in the employ of one of the dozens of titty joints in the Quarter that doesn’t charge cover.

Not so.  In addition to all the amenities I mentioned above, there was a also private mezzanine for us to view the downstairs stage as well as a stripper pole smack dab in the middle of the main area that was frequented by whatever the tide dragged in at any particular point in the evening.  I was, indeed, on property that was owned and maintained by the proprietors of Babe’s Cabaret.

So, as I am sure you can guess, it was interesting party.  The drinks were thick as a brick all night, and at some point two enormous bottles of Jagermeister showed up on the bar, after which almost every cocktail ordered seemed to be spiked with that dark, syrupy goop.  Every now and again I would make my way to the balcony carrying an arm full of throws with the intent to corrupt Mormon co-eds in town for the Sugar Bowl and a belly full of whiskey.  And when I finally switched to beer at around 3:30AM, it was too late;  the damage had been done.

As I was puking in a bush in front of my apartment at 5 AM after jumping out a moving cab filled with lunatics headed for some after-after-after hours action at F&M, I reflected on my night of indulgence and vice.  I’m of the opinion that just being in possession of booze and being alive is reason enough to tie one on, so I’ve always been a little confused by the New Year’s Eve zeitgeist as a whole.  But seeing literally tens of thousands of people out on the streets of New Orleans giving in to their deepest temptations, even if only for a night, warmed my heart and gave me a fresh perspective on what this holiday may mean to some people.

With this new found outlook on New Year’s Eve and it’s time-honored traditions, as well as a buoyed appreciation for the elegant beauty of an earnestly indulged vice, I’m getting in on the fun by ending my decade long hiatus on making resolutions to offer this: I’m giving whatever will-power, restraint, and better judgment I have left after spending a year in New Orleans the next 12 months off.

Happy New Year everyone!