Every time I think I’ve experienced the weirdest New Orleans has to offer, the city conjures up some unimaginably surreal concoction.

April Fools Day 2005. A friend who works at a local bank scored some tickets to a free food, free booze fundraiser / costume party. Armed with a duffle bag of costumes from Mardi-gras past, five of us saddle up our bikes and set out across town.

So as Pope John Paul II lay expiring in Rome, we arrived at St. Alphonsus – a deconsecrated Catholic church. Inside the erstwhile holy sanctuary were costumed revelers, two fully stocked and wide open bars, tables overflowing with food, and a blues band ensconced where once had been an alter.

For the next several hours lust and gluttony competed with sloth and coveting of neighbors’ wives for bragging rights.

At one point in the evening a very dapper Lucifer appeared with a ream of easy-to-use contracts and promises of fame or fortune in exchange for a mere signature. If all goes well, soon I will be quite famous.

On nights like these I’m never quite sure if there is a special circle of hell ahead or if God has deemed New Orleans some sort of free-fire zone. How else can we explain this?