It’s hard not to be allured by the bar hopping, bright lights and loud music of Bourbon Street. Even though I’m not looking to meet anyone, I feel the need to be just a bit more hip than I usually feel. I have different personas in my head that I could assume. I could be the firm steady guy that keeps his cool. There are hurricanes and hand grenades, colorful mixed drinks in tall, translucent containers. I could down one of those and feel looser, get a little wilder and get noticed.
Maybe some hot chick will notice me, but I’m married, so of course I’m not looking, mind you. At least, that’s what I try to convince myself. But hey, it would be a nice boost to my ego if someone noticed. The bass beats in my chest, the neon blurs my eyes and the people are reveling, beckoning me to come on in, to see what I’m made of.
Why am I all of the sudden so self conscious? Will I be in, out, or just there to lose myself – just for the evening.
Not everything entices though. The smell, for instance. All up and down Bourbon street, spilled beer and vomit mix on the asphalt and flavor the air.
And, the party isn’t the only game in town. There’s jazz.
But that’s another topic, for tomorrow.
