A drunk girl on St. Ann

staggering toward Bourbon, which I had just crossed on my way to work, asked me “Is Bourbon bumping?”

“Bumping?”

“You know,” she said, frustrated, and then fluttered her hands in the air. “Bumping!”

I saw scattered businessmen wandering around with go cups, seemingly delighted that they could drink in public. Several college-age boys were leaning off the galleries of Bourbon Street bars, dangling beads and demanding to see breasts. There were human statues every half-block, begging money from tourists by posing with toy dogs or footballs. If that’s “bumping,” then, yeah, Bourbon was bumping at 6:30 this evening.

I don’t know what the hell “bumping” means.

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