Hey now

I guess it was a week ago now, that encounter with the Ghost Tour I detailed in my last post. (#592: Time flies when you're on the road.)

The sheer volume of blog fodder that accumulated from the surreal nature of my time in New Orleans totally overwhelmed my ability to capture it on the Treo keys. I left the Big Easy early Sunday a.m., after having spent Saturday night with Sidney and a crowd of friends at Rio Mar for their pal Julie's 50th birthday celebration. The night before, I had attempted Tipitina's, but it was the Kermit Ruffins & BBQ Swingers' 15th Anniversary party, and I couldn't even get close.

On Thursday, however, I hit paydirt at Jacques-Imo's (a homonymous take on the the Iko Iko lyric), having sought it out based solely on a passing mention in the Moon Handbook. The funky creole-cajun culinary hole-in-the-wall on Oak Street has been rated by many top foodie magazines to be among the best restaurants in the city, as I later learned from the wall of reviews while waiting for the loo. As luck would have it, I found a seat at the bar within moments of arriving and ordered a slice of alligator sausage cheesecake and some gumbo before being offered some cornbread by the brother sitting next to me--killer, but not the best I've ever had. (#879: A bartender will never steer you wrong on menu recommendations); (#931: the best cornbread on the planet is made by Owen Murray's sister.)

Born and raised in Austin, Texas, Buddy, as I came to know my cornbread source, moved to Los Angeles to follow his dream of becoming a stuntman. He finds himself in town frequently for K-ville, a TV show about New Orleans filmed on location. (His other credits include Pirates of the Carribean, which is why he was wearing a Pirates of the Carribean sweatshirt. ) We chatted about his profession, and about K-ville, and about New Orleans. Apparently some of the local K-ville crew were disappointed when a network picked up the pilot because they felt that the show portrayed the police there as being on the right side of the law, which was not true-to-life in their opinion.

After finishing his crawfish etouffee, Buddy was heading to a bar on Magazine where one of his favorite bands was playing, and he invited me along. I was happy to save him the cab fare, so we drove over to Le Bon Temps Roule. The place was empty when we arrived, but got claustriphobically crowded as the Soul Rebels got ready for their show. The stage was no less crowded. The nine of them I counted--a full brass band, tuba and all, and two drummers--looked like an NFL defensive line, with the exception of the skinny Asian guy who carried in the equipment and turned out to be the guitarist. The percussionist couldn't even fit on the stage and faced the band from the front of the floor. After they started to play the place got even more tightly packed, and 45 minutes later, the crush of the crowd began to overshadow my enjoyment of their fusion of hip hop and jazz so I said good-bye to Buddy and left. He was headed back to California in the morning because the writers' strike had put an end to K-ville production for the time being.