There’s a requisite drive-through daiquiri shop, but drinks are cheaper at the casino.
Keep following Williams to the water and you’ll hit the Treasure Chest.
try to follow the steps of a line dance forming to a song I’ve never heard before when a middle-aged woman in hot pants whispers that I’d better get off the dance floor with my cocktail glass, because there is no telling how dangerous the dancing might get.
But the Treasure Chest gives us a few hours each Sunday to stick our heads deep in the past, and not come out until last call.s I left the gym to go to work, I opened my phone and tapped a little red notification dot.But when she left she confessed to me what she’d known all along. “Even the popsicle stands are from 1910.” Point taken.Sure, in some ways, New Orleans needs to look forward.That woman is D, short for Dreda, a name no one calls her because “they can’t pronounce it.” She met her husband Steve at dancing school when she was fourteen and he was eighteen.
She was the only girl who would go into the circle while the boys did “the alligator,” an infamous Louisiana dance move meant to impersonate the swamp creature, as well as illicit bedroom activities.
It revealed an XXX profile link that an internet troll had left on my personal Twitter page.
There she was, a girl I recognized, frozen in time 15 years ago.
It’s a live broadcast, after all, and you can’t just appeal to the people in the room.
But this conversation is one that everyone is having, in some capacity, around town.
If you remember that, you’ll never go wrong.” As he walks away, “Shama Lama Ding Dong” starts to play.