Celebrating the Saints

Did you know there are bars in New Orleans that don't open till midnight?

There are others - many, in fact - that are open 23 hours a day. The 24th hour is so that brief custodial duties can be undertaken. Many of these places operate in smooth choregraphy with neighboring bars, staggering the one-hour closing so that regulars in Bar A have only to walk next door to Bar B for that 60 minutes - and vice versa - and any inconvenience is kept to a minimum.

There is also a bar in the French Quarter - or at least there was; not sure if it's still there - that was a popular spot for the mimes that worked Bourbon and Royal streets and Jackson Square. Towards midnight, or whenever said mimes decided the tourist trade had slowed for the evening, the Silent Ones would show up at this joint to relax with a few cocktails.

You ever wondered what drunk mimes sound like when they're venting frustrations over the cheapness of tourists? These folks, nightly, created new Rubik's cubes of creative combinations of scathing obscenity.

I thought about stuff like this a lot last week as the hours counted down to the Super Bowl. Then I really thought about it Sunday evening as it became obvious that the New Orleans Freakin' Saints were going to win!

On Friday, sweating on the exercycle in our basement - as opposed to not sweating on a bar stool - I read a wonderful anecdote about the Saints that made me laugh.

On a Sunday in 1970, Tom Dempsey, the Saints place kicker, blasted a still-standing NFL record field goal of 63 yards to win a game. So Dempsey wouldn't be crushed by an adoring mob, he was sequestered in the locker room, waiting for the throng to run out of steam. As time passed, someone asked Dempsey how he was holding up. Fine, he said; just a little thirsty. A cold Dixie beer would taste good.

A call was made and, in quick minutes, a police car arrived at the stadium carrying three cases of Dixie beer for the kicker. "Only in New Orleans," Dempsey said.

I actually had a few Dixie beers Sunday as the Mighty Saints pulled it off. Despite the celebratory possibilities, though, within 15 minutes of head coach Sean Payton hoisting the Vince Lombardi trophy, I was asleep.

Sigh.

Gone are the days (and evenings) when I could show up for a midnight bar opening or drink till dawn in spirited discussion with mimes, or even wander out of Bar A to temporarily take up residence in Bar B - only to see the sun was already up.

But I'll bet that's what happened in New Orleans yesterday. I'll bet it's still happening today. And you know what? If I were down there with them, in that magical City that Care (and Various Governments) Forgot but the Saints didn't - well, who knows? Because, since Katrina, all of this takes on an added spirit and meaning.

You hear that? It's the wheels of Good Times, rolling. Or maybe it's the mimes, screaming for joy.

This is the opinion of Rick Koster.