So one night a bunch of goth kids declared Doomsday. . . And then, just a few months later, New Orleans' own Tropical Isle--despised by goths and other artsies; and the Home of the Hand Grenade-- all but burns to ashes. Coincidence? I think NOT!
The tourists moan. Fratboys wail. All watch helplessly as the hub of Bourbon Street Douchebaggery gets the scarring of a lifetime. Amidst such chaos, can there ever be reason to hope?