In honor of Mardi Gras, which is a really just an excuse to get stinkin' drunk and show your tits, I'd like to share some of my impressions of New Orleans.
- I had never seen a person walk down the street at a fairly normal pace whilst vomiting profusely, not until my first visit to Bourbon Street. In the time I watched this guy with horrified fascination, he must've donated at least three pitchers to the party in the gutters. Even worse, I saw him shortly thereafter with a fresh beer in hand. I waved at the beer and shouted, "Be seein' you soon!"
- Sometimes touching human dramas unfold right before your eyes; such is the magic of Bourbon Street. As Jim and I watched from the stability of a blessedly sturdy lamp post, a pair of folks who seemed to be mother and son -- he didn't look to be more than sixteen or so -- wandered into the vicinity of a drag bar across the road. They were both blonde and barefoot, and mom was definitely going for the Ellie Mae Clampett look, down to the hairdo and the red checkered halter top. It probably looked a little more Ellie Mae on her about fifteen years ago. As trailer mom and junior paused to watch the revelers pass, a very large black drag queen made her way purposefully toward the barefoot boy, and as junior slipped his arm in a most familar manner around Dragzilla, it was apparent that they were, uh, acquainted. Now, some of the performers in the drag bar hang out by the door to drum up business, and the ones they post out front are the most successful transformations. I was born female, and I will never, ever look as good as some of those drag queens. Bitches. Dragzilla, however, was pretty obviously a hulking man in a dress and wig, but junior didn't seem to mind a bit. Then mom turned around, and immediately took a most disapproving attitude. By that, I mean she started shouting shrill obscenities, and then this little hillbilly woman with no shoes began to chase the giant drag queen down Bourbon Street, with possibly the only glass bottle on the block clutched in her hand and brandished for immediate smackdown. Dragzilla, I must say, made amazing speed while wearing heels, but the barefoot cuntessa was bound to gain on her. Luckily, brains conquered speed, and Dragzilla was able to duck into another bar (probably one that required shoes) and lost the little mama who was so ready to do battle armed with a backwash-coated Bud bottle and a hearty rebel yell.
- I'm not sure I would have actually gone through with it, because I'd hate to end up on late-night TV as part of the Frumpy Old Bitches Gone Wild video promotion, but I was kind of half hoping someone would give me the traditional "Show me your tits!" greeting. As much time as I spent hoofing it through the French Quarter, no one seemed inclined to encourage my brief and partial nudity. And really, I was okay with it, until the day I was standing next to a 70-year-old woman, and the guys on the balcony were begging to see her hooters for some sweet beads. I, apparently, was Officially Chopped Liver.
Enjoy your Fat Tuesday, all y'all. Make some King cake, toss some beads, drink enough beer for a whole Krewe, show your tits (and I don't just mean the girls), eat a dozen paczkis, make sweet love (or engage in hot anal sex, if sweet love is out of the question), make sweet love to a pazcki. . .and, most of all, let the good times fuckin' roll!