Journal Entry No. 007 – “Midnight in New Orleans”
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Entry Date: February 12th, 2:17 a.m. Bourbon Street, New Orleans. Rain-soaked and jazz-stained.
New Orleans is the kind of place that demands you misbehave. It’s a city with a heartbeat, a hangover, and a habit of pouring too much into everything—including the glass. I arrived here on a dare, or maybe a debt—either way, I’m pretty sure it involved an ex-girlfriend, an accordion player, and something I agreed to in a very poor state of decision-making.
I was supposed to be here for one night. That was four days ago.
The Man with the Saxophone and the Suitcase
I met him in a smoky alley between two bars that didn’t have names, just doors and bad intentions. He was wearing a suit that looked borrowed and a hat that had seen better decades. The saxophone case in his hand wasn’t carrying a saxophone. It was carrying whiskey—several bottles, in fact, wrapped in sheet music and hope.
He called himself Luther. Said he used to play with Miles Davis. Then he winked. I don’t believe him, but I wanted to.
He handed me a bottle like it was an heirloom and said, “You drink this in silence or in sin. There is no in-between.”
The Bourbon Was Blanton’s
Classic. Smooth. It had no business being passed to strangers in an alley, which made it all the more perfect.
We shared a pour under the flicker of a broken streetlamp while a brass band in the distance covered Nirvana like it was gospel. I asked Luther what he thought of the bourbon.
He said, “Tastes like forgiveness with a hint of regret.”
That might’ve been the most New Orleans thing I’ve ever heard.
Today’s Whiskey: Blanton’s Single Barrel Bourbon
The original single barrel bourbon—rich, smooth, and annoyingly hard to find.
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Nose: Brown sugar, orange peel, clove, and polished oak
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Taste: Caramel, honey, dark fruit, and toasted spice
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Finish: Velvety, long, and criminally well-mannered
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Pairs best with: Jazz, alleyway secrets, and decisions you won’t admit to later
Final Thought from the Idiot
I never saw Luther again. He disappeared into the music like he’d been part of it all along.
But I still have the bottle. And a faint ringing in my ears that might be either inspiration or inner ear damage.
Either way, New Orleans gave me something I didn’t ask for—but definitely needed.
Until the next wrong turn,
—W.I.
