Luke’s father had some in with CBS and managed to score Final Four tickets. I lived in New Orleans at the time, so Luke and two other friends came down to stay with me and make it an informal bachelor party week for Luke.
Before they arrived, it was my job to head down to the French Quarter, where CBS had set up operations and a huge hospitality room, to pick up the tickets and the passes to get into the CBS parties. Five tickets and five passes.
On my way home, I passed a small bar on the edge of the Quarter called the Corner Pocket, with a picture of an 8-ball on the sign. Since my friends and I liked to shoot pool, I took note of the location.
From the moment Luke arrived, he was constantly harassed by some people who had the same connection to CBS about the passes. “Look, we were supposed to get five passes, and we have five passes. I’m sorry if you are having trouble getting yours, but I don’t know what else to tell you.” Only after the tournament was over did we read the passes and realize that they each admitted two people, not one. Sorry.
Not being a big sports person, my girlfriend backed out of the semifinals at the last minute. We traded her ticket for a bottle of Crown Royal to bring into the Superdome.
After the game, we wandered over to the Tropical Isle, home of the famous – and lethal – grain-alcohol based Hand Grenade cocktail. Have one and you’ll lose your keys. Have two and you’ll forget your name. We had three each, at least as far as anyone could remember.
At midnight, we were among the first into the Dungeon, a horror/heavy-metal-themed bar, which at the time opened at 12:00 a.m. It being Luke’s bachelor party, he ordered round after round of the Dungeon’s specialty cocktails, and they start to line up on the bar in front of us: Witch’s Brews, Cherry Bombs, Dragon’s Blood.
We got a cab uptown, and I suggested we stop at this great music club along the way. “Too dangerous for you white boys,” the cab driver chimed in. Charming. I had been to this place many times (in fact, it’s where I first hooked up with the crazy woman), but my friends would now have none of it.
“This does seem to be a dangerous town,” one friend said to the cab driver. “How do you keep safe?”
“I have this,” replied the cab driver, as he pulled a handgun out of the center console and brandished it.
My roommates and I had a “BOOT CHART” outside the bathroom, with two columns: “House” and “Guest.” Luke managed to add impressively to the away team score that night. (Once, after a particularly wild night in the French Quarter, my two roommates and I managed to complete the elusive House trifecta, two of us in Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop and the third scoring on the front lawn after dawn upon our return.)
My girlfriend was the fifth person for the finals. After the game, as the crowd poured out into the Quarter and Bourbon Street was packed, I remembered the out-of-the-way Corner Pocket. “Follow me, folks, I know a place just off the beaten track here where we can shoot pool.” My friends, and even my girlfriend, who lived in New Orleans, marveled at my expertise regarding the Crescent City.
We opened the door and burst in, and before I knew what was going on, Luke screamed and my girlfriend yelled, “Oh my god!” Then I saw why. There was a naked man squatting on the bar, as the bartender was stirring a “cocktail” with his member. Later, a gay friend told me, “I wouldn’t step foot in that place. That’s the kind of place where you go to pay for sex.” With my insider’s knowledge of the Big Easy, I had taken my straight friends to one of the Quarter’s most notorious gay bars.
To this day, when I suggest a bar or restaurant to any of those friends, they simply say, “Corner Pocket.”
