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Strippers, hookers, mud wrestling… My kind of shit

Paula Froelich BP oil spillPhoto from the Louisiana shores (Photo by Joe Raedle/Getty Images)

Karl is once again furious — I went back to New Orleans… without him. I was going down to check out the BP command center outside of Houma, LA, and do some digging around — I had heard stories of strippers, hookers, mud wrestling… you know, my kind of shit.

So I flew down last Saturday, grabbed my pal G, the one from last time with the jean shorts and bandanna obsession, and drove an hour to Houma – a pretty nondescript town with a lot of strip malls. Thank God my pal’s parents, Penny and Robert LeBlanc live down there. They took us out to the Cocodrie Bayou afterwards to a place called Fisherman’s Paradise (and it was!).

One question: WTF is up with all these hot bayou dudes? Seriously. We walked into a general store and behind us walked two of the hottest dudes I have ever seen. Shirtless. Yes, I was in Heaven. They were all, “We’re going to see a band tonght at _______,” and I was like, “Marry me.” They even opened my door. Granted, we probably had nothing to talk about, but it got me thinking — why don’t men in New York take a refresher course on being manly from below the Mason Dixon? It would get them laid so much easier.

1. Open a woman’s door.

2. Get her chair for her/stand when she comes to the table.

3. Get the check.

4. Be polite — and ask questions about HER

5. Be nice

Seriously, dudes, it works.

After Cocodrie, we checked out of the roach motel we had checked into for a nanosecond and crashed at Penny and Robert’s. Thank God. I kept saying “No, no… it’s ok…” and Penny finally got me with, “Now, y’all know there’s an epidemic of bed bugs!” I cant afford that shit. Fo’ realz.

The next day I dropped off G and got picked up at the International House (amazing NOLA hotel, FYI) by my new pal and BP worker, Wynn —who thought it would only take an hour and a half to get to Grand Isle. He was wrong. Three hours later we finally hit the gulf and get on a boat heading to a floating hotel (flotel), which is a nice word for… shit hole.  Seriously.

They cram peeps into shipping containers and tell them to clean up the beaches. Oof. All these dudes stuffed into air conditioned compartments… most of them are seriously dodgy. I tell you what: I’m am glad it had only been opened three days. Otherwise you KNOW there would have been some fights. They looked at me like I was a side of ham. Then again, I was wearing semi-inappropriate 3 inch heels.

Finally, get back to NOLA and met up with a voodoo priestess — Sallie Ann Glassman. (Yeah – I wondered the same thing – how did a nice Jewish girl end up a voodoo priestess? Who knew life could be so random?). She rocked. I of course bought a gris gris bag and scheduled a reading, because why not? Heh. I’ll take all the luck I can get!