Bachelorettes and the Men Who Love Them

Girls Just Want To Have Fun - Greg Laswell (mp3)

A few guaranteed experiences you will have if you spend more than 30 minutes on Bourbon Street after 8 p.m. at night:

• You will hear "Don't Stop Believin'" at least twice. The longer you stay, the more you'll realize you don't like the song as much as you thought you did.
  
• You will hear "Summer Nights" coming from Cat's Meow. It will likely be unpleasant.
  
• You will see at least one pair of exposed breasts. The odds of them being attractive breasts are the same as the Cubs winning the World Series.
  
• You will receive beads for doing nothing other than looking up at someone on a balcony who bought a bajillion of the things but whose standards for giving them out has become depressingly low for them, because they thought they'd be seeing a bajillion exposed breasts when there's really only three whorishly ugly women walking around showing theirs.
• You will cross at least three bachelorette parties per hour.
  

In the name of science, I spent several nights investigating bachelorette parties, first in a purely observatory mode, and then one night immersing myself in their midst, interviewing key players in the management and staging of said party, and attempting to determine what outside factors can make or break the experience.

First, it's difficult to miss a bachelorette party. They're like flamingos in a hen house. All of them will be dressed in tacky shit, and the bachelorette at the center will be wearing a tiara or a veil. Her shirt will also say something original, like "Bachelorette." The other ladies wear shirts that say stuff like "Bridesmaid," or, in slightly different script, "Bridesmaid."

Second, many bridesmaids will have condoms pinned somewhere to their person. Frequently the condoms are fastened to their veil/train, although at other times they're pinned or taped to their clothes. Either way, something about seeing a woman spotted with a Coat of Many Condoms or wearing a Colored Condom Veil is neither becoming (ha!) nor comely (haha!).

Third, a direct correlation exists between the attractiveness of a bridal party and the bride wearing things like "Suck for a Buck." That is, if the bride is wearing a shirt with little LifeSavers on it and that text scribbled or ironed on, she and/or a majority of her party are quite icky.

Only hideous or socially clueless women would go to New Orleans -- a place where women frequently expose their breasts for nothing more than a $0.10 piece of plastic -- and expect a man to pay a dollar for the sole chance of biting a LifeSaver off the covered midriff of a look-alike from that Planters commercial? For only three dollars, some chick working in the bar 20 feet away will put a vial of some colored alcoholic liquid between her breasts and let you drink it. Slowly. Heck, the economy is so bad the strip clubs were giving away free admission like it was a government-sponsored bailout, so you can get a whole lot more from a stripper for a dollar than ripping a little LifeSaver off some nasty white wife-beater shirt. (Or so I've heard?)

After my fellow travelers called it a night on Friday, I immediately bolted for my chance to sing "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" -- accent and all! -- at Cat's Meow. Cat's Meow, the one true karaoke bar on Bourbon Street, is far and away my guiltiest pleasure, and on all three nights I snuck over there after my pals had retired to the hotel room.

Anyway, after my captivating performance I got adopted by a very sweet bachelorette brood (methinks my Gawd-awful brogue and the panache with which I sang "Dadalum-dadalum-dadalum-dadalum-dada" is what did it). These adorable ladies even rewarded me between verses by shooting my mouth full of coconut rum with their water guns. Because this group was fairly attractive and mostly nice, they didn't have on lots of bachelorette/bridesmaid gear, nor did they have tiaras or veils or anything. They wore little pink armbands and carried those wonderful water pistols. The bride wore a weaved cowboy hat with a pink band. And wore it damn nicely if I say so my damn self.

Instead of asking men for a dollar, they gave something. To the men they found amusing or entertaining or hot went several squirts of go-go juice. And unlike the clueless money-grubbing groups, these women were even polite and patient with the jerks. As one of the bridesmaids told me, "The ones we don't like, we pull 'em in close and shoot in the eyes." Brilliant.

Hell, these ladies filled me so full of coconut rum that I felt guilty for taking so much. Therefore I drunkenly decided to repay them with tequila shots... only to discover after the Patron was on the table that 10 semi-fancy shots in a bar on Bourbon Street runs $60. I threw up a little in my mouth at that point. But on the other hand, I wasn't alone in being generous with these girls. I bet at least seven or eight guys or groups of guys bought them drinks, all because the ladies were generous and sweet rather than guarded and covered in frappin' LifeSavers.

So, in conclusion, if you're going to go to New Orleans for a Bachelorette Party dressed up to be noticed, be nice to the guys who notice you. Even the obnoxious stupid ones. Don't act like it's some chore for you to tolerate the very men you apparently dressed up to distract. If they cross the line, shoot them in the eyes with high-test alcohol. If you don't want their attention, then don't wear stupid clothing, stupid tiaras and stupid LifeSavers.

(If that seems like an unfair sexist thing to say, then I can't wait to hear your opinions of Bourbon Street... but I welcome such commentary nonetheless if deserved.)