So I usually feel guilty for blogging to the exclusion of all else, but since I'm operating on about an hour of sleep I could give a fuck (which, incidently, closely ties into my sleepless state). And clearly by my difficulty with typing (three tries on with -- what you're reading is edited) I might still be a little drunk. Stands to reason. It's been not quite eight hours since my last drink.
I had the notion that I would write my travelogue day by day, and then post one day per day, if you get my meaning, so as to better describe and remember it. It would have been a good idea, but I was too busy, you know, what with the drinking. So this will be one long rambly half-drunken jag, rather like the weekend itself.
My current condition:
If this is a hangover then they aren't too bad, but at some point I'm gonna crash and it ain't gonna be pretty. Despite being washed a few hours ago, my feet still smell like Bourbon Street. My hair smells like Bourbon Street Blues Company, the guy who bit me there, and like barbeque and smoke. I still hear loud music. Will that go away, you suppose?
Anyway, this is what I wrote at naptime on Friday:
It took a little convincing but I did it. We started drinking at noon (buzz-on goal accomplished ten-fold) (Why is beer on airplanes always warm?) and I never really hit staggering drunk until Virtigo dragged me down to the street below the balcony we'd been hanging out on. And at the time, I didn't realize just how drunk I truly was...
ahem. Got some beads. Lots o' beads. Then got lots of compliments when I went back upstairs. Yeeeeahhh, right. As if they could even see 'em from way up there.
Actually Virtigo made the big haul, and all without nipple. I hope I only imagined the sigh of disappointment when I finally did my girlie duty. PHF swears there was no disappointment and a "clear view". Just as well. I don't have any cleavage at any rate. Nothing to tease with. For me, it's rather an all or nothing proposition...
Boys outnumber girls on Bourbon four to one, so if you dance you are quickly swarmed. I only had to be rescued once, by BB. (Where was PHF, you ask? Up on the balcony looking at the bewbies, of course.) Though I'm not one to scoff admiring attention, I wasn't really after a gang bang on the dance floor.
And then, later, when the guy started biting my neck while he was dancing... and not very well, I might add; well, I decided to retire to the loving embrace of my husband. Guys, a word on this: a hard-on while dancing is not sexy. It's kinda icky, actually.
Some shit you don't care about: the accent is damn sexy (I think I know Luna's secret weapon now), the river is huge, the city is crowded and friendly, and the rain is peaceful and does nothing but lend atmosphere to what must be one of the most atmospheric places on earth.
That was Thursday.
Which brings us to Friday the Thirteenth.
In a word, the entire day sucked. Well, sucked is a strong term, but not too strong, and the really sucky thing is that we didn't really realize that it sucked at the time. One of the party --I'd say who, but I took the Standard Oath Of Secrecy... on pain of torturous death, yada yada, you know the drill-- anyway, in the wee hours someone (ahem, not me, I'll say that much) woke up and puked all over their bathroom, leaving their spouse with quite the clean up endeavor. The only spot of luck is that (s)he doesn't remember. The spouse does though, and one of the funnier remarks of the entire weekend was the pukee saying, "Well, when it happens again just call housekeeping."
Friday we all were moving slow, but we walked around and saw the French Quarter and then started drinking again... oh hell, I don't know, it was eleven at least. Well, being as it was Friday the Thirteenth we thought it providencial to join the Ghost and Vampire Walking Tour of the Quarter.
It seemed like a good idea at the time and it was too boring to say any more about it.
Other Friday the Thirteenth Mayhaps:
-BB got a Big Ass Beer spilled on his nice pants as he was walking back to change them at the hotel just so something like that wouldn't happen to them.
-Virtigo jammed her foot under a post in the road. OUCH! Those posts are not the height of southern engineering.
-I got pelted in the face with beads and I'm surprised I still have both my front teeth.
-It was too crowded to be real fun.
-Dinner sucked. I mean, a singularly awful meal. I won't go into details, but Pat O'Brian's sucks. Worst restaurant in America, no lie.
-I couldn't catch a buzz to save my life.
-Some ugly tool tried to feel me up.
-The girls in the strip joint were all nasty. "This is where the fat and ugly strippers go to die," Virtigo said. One of them even said to us while we were in the bathroom, "For God's sake, don't sit on the toilet seats!" And per usual, the other guys in the club thought I was a stripper. Not exactly a compliment in that place.
Saturday was much improved, with sleeping, naptime, and an absolutely FABULOUS meal that dispelled the memory of the previous night. We did quiet drinks in a courtyard in the afternoon. We danced at night (I told PHF if he didn't want me to get mauled and bit by strange men while I was on the dance floor then he'd have to come stand guard), we went up on the balcony (Bourbon Street Blues Company again - cheap beers upstairs) and ruled the street for our quarter hour or so. We had a huge crowd stopped below, all the way across the intersection and half-way down the street; seriously, PHF and BB and Virtigo and me and this other group of girls (who hit shamelessy on my husband). I was helping these cute boys to pick out chicks who would actually flash, and I got pretty good at it, too. You know, you're like little godlings up there on the balcony. Don't want to analyze the good time out of it, and I don't want to do it every weekend, but it's some serious fucking fun.
When I finally went down to take a turn (I can't flash from the balcony very well cuz I'm too short for the railing) I got like twenty strands of beads. It was a hailstorm. Makes a girl feel special.
Ahem, let me break here for a moment to say that Lunatic must think I'm some old lady who goes home at eleven. While the places he recommended were awesome (the Blacksmith in particular, and the Absynthe was our first stop on Bourbon Street though we never got back there) they were pretty tame. And dueling pianos? Come on, we've got that here. He's dead on about the shoes though. I threw mine away at the hotel this morning.
Anyway, back to Saturday. I should add here that I'm on many a boy's camera and home movie, and I'd even venture to guess that my image has been emailed via cell phone. PHF said all this as if it would shock me but I think it's funny.
When it started to wind down a bit, people mostly walking home, we followed BB over to the Dungeon. Very cool goth bar with fabulous music. Kind of a small, intimate place. Of course, in my green linen short skirt and halter I don't know that I quite fit in, but I was too drunk to care. PHF got hit on all night - the man is just damn hotness in a visor. I think when I actually went upstairs to dance, leaving him talking with this chick at the bar and smoking a clove (oh god, the smoking... sooooo hot. He looks like an actor in a European film) he was truly amazed.
Well, he is damn lucky to have me.
By the time we went back to the hotel, amused ourseves there for a bit, and finally closed the curtains to sleep, the sun was coming up. We slept until one the next day.
Sunday night was tamer. The cabaret was pretty good until they ran through the girls and started re-running them. Then it got boring. It was funny; we had been there for a couple of hours, watching all the people and the dancers. And then, suddenly, I'd had enough. I had to get out and away. I was abruptly all pissed off. I don't know if it was PHF giving more money to the young chick whose body I most coveted, or the married guy getting a lapdance-- neither should have been enough to really set me off, but I actually said, "I'm going out now. I've had enough." and I walked out and stood around out on the street by myself (enduring a few catcalls but by then I was used to it) until they paid and came out.
We did the balcony thing again, though no one had any beads; BB and Virtigo wisely headed home by one. PHF and I screwed around and walked the street again and he bought me a nice trinket to make up for whatever slight he thought I'd imagined him causing me when I walked out of the cabaret all pissed off. Finally we went to sleep for one and a half hours before we had to head to the airport at four-thirty.
Which brings me to today. I feel a bit like when you land in London. You're really fucked from the jetlag, but it's morning there and you don't want to waste the day, so you go on as best you can. Besides, I got to stay up to get my kid from school and finally see him after five days.
I still feel drunk and I haven't had a shower since yesterday. I think it's time to go wash off Bourbon Street. But I'll miss it though.
Now, Greg, what the hell have you been up to in my absence?? Posting pictures and flirting with thirteen year olds? Sounds like we need to have a chat.
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