The Rattlesnake's Bite: New Orleans Review (archived July 2002)

Hey Yo,After the annual trek to the NO, some memorable moments still persist. One being the number of white people who were there. Imagine all of the travel agents who were fired by Whitey because of this oversight. (We got there and there were all these, these...black people! What the hell did you send us into Bob!) Allow me to run through some others.

The Newness in Nigga-nessWithout question, Southwest is now officially known as Nigga Air. Firstly, the goddamn planes refuse to take off on time. Apparently, the time they give you for departure is just an estimate for the lazy, shiftless and lackadaisical (one time for Osiefield) ass pilots to get that hunk of tin moving. Additionally, Nigga Air's low rates seem to attract a wide variety of people, but mostly niggas who don't mind spending as much time in the airport during a delay as in the fucking air. This problem is greatly compounded when catching the outbound flight. See, whatever crowd you encounter on Nigga Air on the imbound, multiply that shit by about 20 to estimate the crowd on the outbound. I knew I was in trouble when the cab driver started laughing after I told him I was on Nigga Air (but I bet that sumbitch wouldn't laughing after I stiffed his ass on the tip. Hee hee, you fuck). There will be a line of niggas so long it'll make you think somebody's passing out Luckily, LL Cool J's big red kangaroo looking ass showed up and many-a-motherfucker was star-struck. Yeah, they were star-struck and I struck ahead of about 25 of their asses to barely make my flight.

Following that, an over-priced happy hour, lounge couches and fine bitches have anointed the W as the new Nigga Inn. You see what the W doesn't realize is that niggas will come and niggas will stay. Any exclusivity they thought they had is fucking gone now. By having such grand features as tiger stomach-tattooed chicks, Shakira look-a-likes, sexy Argentinean broads and waitresses with high-slit dresses, the W is now the spot. Having conquered his enigmatic situation with the bathroom door, I have already been assured by Mr. Jackson that we will be frequenting this fine establishment in the future.

Fine Dining:

The Black Man's ZagatMaxwell's Chicken & Waffles - This quaint establishment, located in walking distance of Nigga Inn, is no doubt a derivative of the more popular Roscoe's in California. However, make before patronizing Maxwell's, there are a few things to keep in mind. Firstly, be sure to arrive to this motherfucker well before you are hungry (about an hour or so in anticipation of your need for sustenance). Elsewise, you run the risk of being one pissed off sumbitch waiting to grub. This is in part due to the severe lack of fucking organization in this place as evidenced by such remarks as "Y'all are up next, baby" (repeatedly), "Has somebody helped y'all yet?" (despite one bitch already pouring water at the table) and "Do y'all even still want the chicken?" (Bitch, what? Are we still here?! Hell fucking yeah, we want the chicken!) By the way if you see some nigga moving a Moet bottle from out in front of the place and then you have to be seated by that same motherfucker...run like hell. Apparently, these jackasses send out to Roscoe's to get your food, which appears to be the cause of the delay. Secondly, be sure to arrive on an even-numbered day. You see, if you come in on the 13th or the 9th or something, you could find yourself with some mad ass taste buds, because Maxwell's is likely to not have any goddamn food at all. Warning signs include being served drummettes instead of chicken breasts (5 drummettes at a time for 3 niggas), the cook having his stankin' ass out sitting with patrons and a big-ass sign on the door that says "We're closed", even though the shit is supposed to be 24/7. Think I'm lying? Try it. Of course, there might be a problem 'cause if shit don't change and change real fucking fast, Maxwell's will be well out of business. If you are fortunate to get some chicken of the drummette variety, make sure to take only your fair share (Hey dog, you done had about 4 or 5 wings. I only got one off that first plate). Thirdly, be wary of what you see and don't get your hopes up. For instance, if you see 5 chicken breasts sitting in the kitchen, and you have 5 brothers in your party who ordered some chicken, don't get excited 'cause that shit might as well be there for decoration. It ain't coming your way no time soon. As a matter of fact, the goddamn server may try to give you an extra chicken breast to cover up the fact that she shorted you on a waffle. Don't worry, she'll just snatch that shit off somebody's table before they dig in, and slide that shit on over to you like ain't nothing wrong. Also, if you see a bunch of waitresses working (even if they outnumber the people in the restaurant), it doesn't mean your food, water or menus are coming any fucking time soon. The only exception to this rule is if you see a cute chick in a white shirt, get her attention and insist that she wait on you. For this heifer is the only one in the whole damn place who knows any-goddamn-thing about waitressing. This is despite the owner's sorry, big 6'4, Al B. Sure on-crack-looking-ass having his family in the restaurant business for 30 years. "Wing" this, you bastard!On the lighter side, Maxwell's food is pretty good and has been known to attract the hard to find "ghetto, but shy" girl. This unique combination can be spotted by continuous blushing and circling the table of the dudes who have asked for her. This behavior is followed by an accent and attitude to rival Ms. Bonita from In Living Colour. Let's see that jackass Crocodile Hunter find one of these. Maxwell's has also been known to induce such comical features as people falling asleep waiting for their food, niggas eating half their food and leaving (without paying) and the Jamal Jackson impromptu "You ain't gonna be in business another week" speech to Al B. Sure, himself. Brothers, we spent way too much time here.

Mulate's - Noted for it's grilled or fried gator and usually reliable, Mulate's offers a long-ass walk from the Quarter where you are likely to encounter such celebrities as Tyronn "I guarded Iverson for one quarter, now pay me" Lue and Bruh'Man (from Martin and not shit since fame). You're certain to encounter some genuine N'Awlins cuisine, but just as certain to encounter an incompetent-ass waiter who can't differentiate between lunch and dinner, has trouble getting the concept of a cash/credit card payment and will take a long time to get you the check (but not as long as them motherfuckers at Maxwell's, but I digress).

The Progressive Diner - The only thing progressive about this shit was the sense of humor of the waiter. As for the food, be on the lookout for the "Was it edible on Friday" barbecue plate, the non-Caesar, Caesar salad and the need-a-hella-lot-of-sugar tea. Stick to the simple stuff like chicken breast sandwiches and water to be safe.

Mother's - If you don't like camping out and don't have the necessities (like a sleeping bag, lots of sunblock and a big-ass tolerance for waiting) don't even bother.

The Party Scene

House of Blues - The proprietors of this once proud site have apparently lost their fucking minds and feel the can stick Essence on something and charge whatever the fuck they want. Despite my protests, we went to this shit and paid the pricey cover. This was accompanied by waiting in a way too fucking long line. (Hey, if y'all motherfuckers wanted to wait in a line, we should have gone to Mother's). Additionally, Biz Markie's ever-expanding ass seems to like repeating songs. Decent drinks and a good amount of hoes make it alright, but with no fight this year and no Aaliyah posters to contemplate stealing, not even the appearance of Miami's own Uncle Luke could make this shit worth it.Simply,

The Greatest - The party formerly known as the "I Don't Believe Magic Has HIV Jam" at the Sheraton is apparently the staging area for much of the visiting female talent in the NO. All the boyz in attendance concurred with such remarks as "This is a fucking hoe-asis", "I've never seen this much quality in one area" and "Goddamn" (repeatedly). Rule of thumb however, do not give up a seat to a bitch unless she gets naked on the spot, they are too valuable of a commodity. Of course, the party was enhanced by the on the spot inspired comedy of responses to Antwoine's "Where's Rico" routine, but more on that later. However, despite the high female population, Jermaine O'Neal and Al Harrington's stankin' asses still couldn't seem to get a flock of bitches to follow them. This stands out because their celebrity brethren like LL Cool J, Magic Johnson and that nigga from Young and the Restless had no such difficulty. This only proves that there are somethings you need to go to college for.

Of course, there is always a good time on Bourbon Street. Quick reminder though, if you encounter some white broads, be sure to call them by the right name. They seem to get mad otherwise.

The New RicSimon Oh, Christ. What in the blue hell happened here? I haven't seen the Georgia native in so much splendor since he threatened to fail half of SBI in Forum (go to sleep if you want). The newly-motivated Mr. Simon made his presence felt all weekend by putting in work on the women, being the recipient of several gratuitous come-ons and most notably was the subject of Antwoine's "Where the fuck is Rico with my cousin?" (Hey dog, you gotta talk to Rico about that). This is the type of behavior I've been trying to get at since the whole "Dude, you could have a hell of a week" deal in 96. If only we had a time machine.

That's about it for the NO wrap-up and probably my last visit for awhile, seeing as how next year around this time, I'll be preparing for the hell known as the Bar (fucking shit). Besides goddammit, it's about time we took the show the road. I'm talking crossing international borders, hitting an island, something. I'll leave that to Jamal, I've got research and plotting to do. Since I'm now back in Michigan, I can officially say, once again, This Shitty.