Well, the truth is I'm writing this at 4:33 in the afternoon on Wednesday, May 6th. I got home a little bit late last night, took a shower, and fell asleep. But for all intended purposes, we'll just pretend I wrote this last night.

Nighttime doesn't come fast enough when you're in New Orleans. The days here seem to wear on and on, and from the corner of your eye (okay.. my eye), I keep tabs on the sun's progression towards the horizon, waiting for darkness to fall on the city.

Finally, it does. The fading twilight signals the start of another night on Bourbon Street. Another night to get lost in the smells, sights and sounds of this stretched-out haven for party-go'ers, strippers, cajun bands and camera-happy tourists.

Tonight, I joined up with a Haunted House Tour through the French Quarter. All together, there are eleven of us, not including our host, a ravishing woman dressed up in black velvet, with a long wooden shaft for a walking stick.

We started the tour at 8 pm across the street from Pat O'Brien's, and headed away from the bustle of Bourbon, down a dark, dimly-lit street. We're told stories of violent deaths, mysterious ghostly apparitions, faucets and lights that turn themselves on in some of the fancier hotels, and doors that open and close all on their own.

We're shown one particular house, which used to be owned by a sultan in the last century or so. For two years, there were parties until dawn, loud disturbances and so forth. Being a residential area, the neighbors didn't care for these people, but after a while, they had learned to tune them out and go on with their lives. One day, people start noticing it's quiet. Unusually quiet. The police are called, and they discover that every single person in the house had been killed. Slaughtered. There were body parts everywhere. Heads, arms, legs. The blood of 150 people creating a pool surrounding the house. No one in the neighborhood said they saw anything or knew anything. To this day, it's still unsolved. Lovely story, isn't it?

After the tour, it's nearly 11 o'clock, and I'm not quite ready to call it a night. I head over to a bright neon sign hanging over a corner bar. "Tropical Isle: Home of the Hand Grenade - New Orleans' Most Powerful Drink." Well, being a daring soul, I bought one. Walking further down Bourbon, sipping on my Hand Grenade, I realized the slogan was entirely too appropriate. I won't go into details, but I had so much fun, I ended up buying another Hand Grenade (half of which is sitting in my fridge). Apparently, the record for having these is fifteen, but the guy "had to go to the hospital and have his *blood changed*". All of it. So, I think I'll just stick with my one and a half.

See you on the road...

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