The following is a six-part blog detailing NAC's trip to New Orleans by contributing blog writer and self-described "trouble-enthusiast," Jeffrey Hill. Photos were contributed by NAC editor Matt Stroud.

PART 5: 24Hrs NEW ORLEANS (continued)
Ernie K-Doe's Mother-In-Law Lounge - Midnight

We rode a taxi van across town to Ernie K-Doe's Mother-In-Law lounge, which was competely empty, save for Ernie's wife and another woman who was probably a second wife and a guy who just bobbed his head whenever I played Fats Domino on the jukebox. It was literally 95 degrees in the bar. My sunburned face and the images of Ernie K-Doe smiting flames from heaven wasn't helping. Don't get me wrong - this place is truly legendary. Ernie's wfe played a role in helping local musicians recover from the storm, providing a practice space on Thursdays, live concerts and a "come-on-in" hospitality that seemed to be a trend in this town.

Check out the loungue's website HERE!

Ernie K-Doe, courtesy of StPhilipNeri.org

After sizzling at K-Doe's place, we headed to our midway point - Mimi's at the Merigny. Nothing much to write about here. Damien, our second guide, and I played one turn of scrabble outside of the club. It was a game that was never meant to be. After a few of us got our dance on and I gleefully froze my ass off in front while checking out the drove of girls with indie haircuts, we got a ride across town to a place called Mae's (notice the matron theme to New Orleans' liquor empire). This is where I met Bob, who explained to me that racism is still very real and a problem in New Orleans. You can watch part of this interview at Brother's Three bar on our video page - here.

Bob's interview was a unique experience on this trip. For the last three days I had been saturated with the language of togetherness, optimism, and community. To hear someone express the counterpoint, tucked away in a quiet, dim-lit bar, completed the spectrum of emotions for me. I had already cried once on this trip, over the guilt of enjoying luxury in a town that is completely out of tears. I found myself remembering something I had lost as a child: a memory of veterans stadium in Philadelphia and thinking to myself - is that such a miniscule thing to lose compared to an entire city? New Orleans is not the same, but the same problems survived the wash out. They're just quieter now, hidden in bars. Most of the people have risen above the storm, and are out there, building a better New Orleans. I just hope they remember Bob and that when the construction is complete, his memory of the smells of Mardi Gras are restored.

After our bar-hopping streak, we decided to do what every liquored-up hopeful in a sinful town does - gamble the rest of our money away in a casino. Remember what I said about Vegas? Scratch that. Have you ever been inside a competely empty casino? It's actually a little frieghtening. Our last guide, Micilin, was eager to lose her money to a hustler in a cocktail dress at a 1-3 Texas hold 'em table.

Walking out of Harrah's and watching the sun rise put me in the shoes of a drifter - a desperate wanderer, kicked from town to town, greeted by the sun after being digested by neon lights and unpaid bar tabs. A strong suggestion for tunes at this time of day - Magnetic Fields, "Charm of the Highway Strip," or the southern gothic preachings of Tenement Halls. Jazz is too sophisticated and experienced for 7a.m. Their madness ends with a lover in arm around 2.

The smell of our clothes killed any shred of romance brought on by the pinks and purples of the day glow. We decided to satiate ourselves with fried dough and mounds of cocaine-sugar at the world-famous Cafe Du Monde. I think they were a bit surprised that we actually stopped there for eggs. New Orleaners have a good laugh - I actually desired bacon, egg and cheese on a bagel.


-image courtesy of Tours By Isabelle.
for exclusive images, visit our photo page here.

We were approaching the home stretch, with less than three hours to go and Micilin decides the best way to soothe our wounds is with a trash pick-up at St. Louis cemetary, home of a voodoo queen. Oh psychogeography, at times you can be so psychotic... Anyway, I have a little message to those who throw 40oz bottles of Miller Lite and potato chip bags full of excrement in between graves:

You suck. Seriously. You need to rethink things - start with yourself. You have no respect for the dead so I guess your disregard for the living either came first, or is soon to follow. Either way, start picking up your trash. And to New Orleans: empty the trash bins in the cemetary. I'm sure the dead don't appreciate being left with five-week old chinese food and wet newspapers.

Enough of my ranting - coming up is the section of my notes which is unreadable, so this is all by memory. We somehow made it back to Jackson Square, our point of origin. I don't know if we walked, if Ernie K-doe gave us a ride or if I somehow passed out on a magic carpet. I do know that Matt Stroud was with me, because I remember him singing "Hey Jude," in an effort to annoy me. My response: a gargled version of "Carribean Queen."

When we arrived back at Jackson Square, I saw through a layer of caked sleep, the infamous "bullshitter in a wheelchair." What a coincidence! The man I was seeking 24 hours prior was here, ready to lift the curse placed on me by Stonewall Jackson, the blues singer, or was it Andrew? Like I said, my notes are a little hazy at this point. He wanted to charge me $80 to read my palm. You can watch video of this scam here. No wonder he's well-known. I did give him $5 to ask him what I should eat after being up for 24 hours. He said gumbo. I did not take his advice.

The bell tolls at St. Louis Cathedral and our guides inform me that I've done it - I made it out alive. 24 hours in New Orleans had passed and I had been conscious for all of it. Did I feel like a New Orleaner? Not quite. Did I feel closer to the local culture than I did at the beginning of it? I think so. I talked to a lot of people. I walked away with hours of video footage, an hour worth of interviews and pages and pages of notes. I can even read some of those pages. Did I smell bad? You bet. I wandered into a convenience store, bought some water and crackers (the hangover elixir), witnessed a shoplifting attempt, and stumbled back to my hotel.

Click for other entries:

PART 1: Arrival in "The Big Easy"
PART 2: "Sparking Creativity" Symposium, Bourbon Street
PART 3: The NPN Trumpet Awards
PART 4: 24Hrs NEW ORLEANS
PART 5: 24Hrs NEW ORLEANS (continued)
PART 6: Recovery.