Welcome to Babylon! Since all of my New Orleans friends moved away after Hurricane Katrina, I graciously accepted an invitation to be a “guest bartender” at Oz for the night, which is the bar on the right of the picture. I thought it would be a better way to meet people than just sitting on a bar stool. And they went for it. Why they trusted me with their cash registers, I have no idea. But they did. Although they made me clean my station and scoop ice and stuff, which I did not appreciate.
Bars in New Orleans are not big; although some of them have small dance floors tucked into the corners, you’ll find no big nightclubs here. But what they lack in size, they make up with quite a punch–this is New Orleans, after all, and people are here to be rowdy and look for a little trouble. Oz is one of the larger spots in the gayborhood, always a crazy fun time, with a dance floor and an upstairs deck to gaze down upon the goings-on of the proliteriat.
Not I was looking anywhere than up, right here.
This was my view all night: a go-go dancer parked himself on my corner and wiggled there for hours, much to the delight of the patrons. I might have snuck a peek or two beneath that towel, but I can neither confirm nor deny such statements at this juncture. Every once in a while he’d treat customers with an up-close-and-personal view, too, which caused the room to scream.
Oh my gosh how embarrassing.
Wait. Look at that.