Saturday, March 19, 2005
*So* Not in Kansas Anymore
I make the turn onto Bourbon Street. The Rue Bourbon is world famous for jazz and hurricanes—A fruity but powerful concoction involving rum and profound suffering and sense of despair the next morning.
Suddenly, a rainbow beam of light shines down from above. A chorus of angels. And I behold a bar, my friends. A bar on Bourbon Street. A bar on Bourbon Street called, of all crazy things…OZ!
I stumble up to the bouncer in a haze of anticipation. I feel that planets subtly align themselves. This is my bar. I am home.
Almost breathless I ask, “That extraordinarily cool shirt you’re wearing. The one that says OZ in that groovy script. Do they sell them inside? You see, I simply must have one. Money is no object.”
I’m told that they are in fact for sale at the bar, which is located in the back. I wander through a dark labyrinth illuminated only by the glow of black light and plasma screen TVs on every wall. I can remember when a small plasma screen started at $10K and went right on up from there. Now they hang them like posters everywhere.
Plasma screens have impressive resolution approaching lifelike. I’m still a little awed by that. There’s some kind of body-building contest on every screen. You can see every tiny hair on the skin like it’s a rope, every bulging muscle, every bulging—oh my dear God. One thing I can’t see—even at this extraordinary resolution—is anyone wearing...any *pants* at all.
I’m at the bar when I realize there’s someone right next to me. A little too next to me. It’s a tall fellow in bright canary-colored silk boxing shorts. Bare chest. He’s wearing a bandolier with condoms stuck in it where the bullets should be.
“Hiya fellah—I’m Gunter. Would you like to follow the yellow brick road?” He nods toward a small doorway against the back wall. There’s mistletoe hanging over the doorjamb.
“NO GOD NO! Ahem, I mean, I’m just here to get a T-shirt actually. I’m not staying. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Suit yourself, a-hole”
It takes over *20 minutes* for the smirky bartender to come back with my T-shirt. Meanwhile, I keep my a-hole fully suited as Gunter suggested, and casually flip through last week’s issue of the LeatherMaster and try to give off a blatantly heterosexual vibe.
It just goes to show you.
The damn Germans really are everywhere...
Suddenly, a rainbow beam of light shines down from above. A chorus of angels. And I behold a bar, my friends. A bar on Bourbon Street. A bar on Bourbon Street called, of all crazy things…OZ!
I stumble up to the bouncer in a haze of anticipation. I feel that planets subtly align themselves. This is my bar. I am home.
Almost breathless I ask, “That extraordinarily cool shirt you’re wearing. The one that says OZ in that groovy script. Do they sell them inside? You see, I simply must have one. Money is no object.”
I’m told that they are in fact for sale at the bar, which is located in the back. I wander through a dark labyrinth illuminated only by the glow of black light and plasma screen TVs on every wall. I can remember when a small plasma screen started at $10K and went right on up from there. Now they hang them like posters everywhere.
Plasma screens have impressive resolution approaching lifelike. I’m still a little awed by that. There’s some kind of body-building contest on every screen. You can see every tiny hair on the skin like it’s a rope, every bulging muscle, every bulging—oh my dear God. One thing I can’t see—even at this extraordinary resolution—is anyone wearing...any *pants* at all.
I’m at the bar when I realize there’s someone right next to me. A little too next to me. It’s a tall fellow in bright canary-colored silk boxing shorts. Bare chest. He’s wearing a bandolier with condoms stuck in it where the bullets should be.
“Hiya fellah—I’m Gunter. Would you like to follow the yellow brick road?” He nods toward a small doorway against the back wall. There’s mistletoe hanging over the doorjamb.
“NO GOD NO! Ahem, I mean, I’m just here to get a T-shirt actually. I’m not staying. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Suit yourself, a-hole”
It takes over *20 minutes* for the smirky bartender to come back with my T-shirt. Meanwhile, I keep my a-hole fully suited as Gunter suggested, and casually flip through last week’s issue of the LeatherMaster and try to give off a blatantly heterosexual vibe.
It just goes to show you.
The damn Germans really are everywhere...
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Hilarious. Figures that your namesake would be at a bar such as this one.
I have yet to find a KA bar...
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I have yet to find a KA bar...
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