Well, I survived a week in the great state of Louisiana. Many thanks to our good friend Wordnerd on the pitfalls to avoid while in the Sportsman’s Paradise. Unfortunately, one cannot enjoy the true LA experience unless you delve into them completely.

We’ll start with a few things I hate about that state. First of all, the water there is for shit. I utterly hate soaping up in the shower and then having to wipe the slime off my body with a towel since the water is incapable of washing it away. They call this a “hard water” problem. Whatever, it sucks. Secondly is the merciless humidity. That place is hotter than a phoenix’s enema. I left West Virginia where it was 53 degrees, stepped off the plane in Houston, Texas to a balmy 96 with near 100-percent humidity. Holy shit Dorothy, we’re not in the hills anymore. As we drove toward Lake Charles, Louisiana it only got hotter and more humid until the atmosphere almost literally exploded in a lightning filled thunderstorm that appeared to be the end of time complete with fire and brimstone. The third drawback to spending time in that region is the constant waft of oil. Everything is saturated with a petroleum based aroma, but after a day or so you don’t notice it.

Wordnerd warned me to watch out for FEMA frauds running rampant and trying to scam everybody. I met a few of those, but I think all of them have moved on to Houston. That was evidenced by a bizarre sign I saw on I-10 in Houston that read, “Reelect Our Mayor, Ray Nagin.” Again, bizarre. I learned that in Louisiana, half the state is under water and the other half is under indictment. Cool, just like West Virginia—minus the water.

On the other hand, the people in the Great State of Louisiana KNOW HOW TO PARTY. Holy shit, it’s like one constant party down there that never ends. You just go in and out whenever you want. The hosts of our conference wanted to give us “local flavor.” Therefore at two of our events we were entertained by a kick-ass band playing that Cajun music that included the fellow playing what looked like a small version of a collapsible wall—he had three different ones that all made virtually the same sound. The band kept telling us what songs they were about to play—but they all sounded the same and were all in that impossible to understand Cajun/French dialect that rolls so sweetly off the tongue and is meaningless to anybody who isn’t from there. You can’t be angry when a good Cajun band is playing—even Jeff Kay would have had to get up and dance. It’s just an intoxicating sound.

Now, I’m not so stupid as to believe everywhere you go there’s a red hot band playing Cajun music. That’s like asking outsiders to believe every bar in West Virginia has a bunch of hillbillies playing banjo and fiddle tunes. It just isn’t so—but we always roll out the bluegrass when a tour comes through since that’s what they expect. In the hotel/casino where I stayed there was a bar called the Jack Daniels Bar and Grill and it was a FINE establishment. The waitresses all wore Daisy Duke cutoffs, Hee Haw halter tops and cowboy boots. I could get used to living like this. Another requirement for visitors is that all ugly people are hidden away somewhere. It was an endless parade of dark-haired, sweet talking Cajun belles all week. Again—I could get VERY used to living like this. I saw NO ugly people on this trip, aside from the freaks they haul into the casino by the bus load to pour money down a toilet.

This hotel was way fancier than I was ever accustomed to. They actually had a bathrobe and slippers in our room. I just can’t see myself in a bathrobe, slippers, smoking a cigar, and drinking bourbon from a jigger glass in a $300 a night hotel. But there I was. This place had its own boat dock and some of the high roller guests were ferried from the airport to the hotel in a sea plane.. Crazy man, pure armadillo shit craziness.

I took a long drive along Louisiana’s gulf coast and it was one of the saddest sights I’ve ever seen. The place was ground zero for Hurricane Rita. We were all overindulged with New Orleans and Rita became the Korean War of the hurricane season. It’s the hurricane everybody forgot. Everybody, except the people of those coastal towns that no longer exist. I’m not kidding when I say we’d come to a town that was on the map and it would be an arrangement of concrete slabs where buildings once stood. You’d find an occasional brand new camper or tiny mobile home that served as a house. These poor folks have nothing left…television hasn’t done this thing justice and most of the country has forgotten about those poor folks. It’s really sad.

I have a few individualized stories from my time in Louisiana, which I’m pretty certain is French/Cajun for “Land of the Blue Tarp Roof.” However, these are just the high points. I’ll try to get more detailed in future updates.