Effluvia

Oh, gosh. I don't know. It's so hard to find interesting links, you know. It makes me sleepy.

Let's see...well, the Gothic Babe of the Week last week wasn't too terribly sexy. Usually, you get lingerie, or cleavage, or something kind of fetish-y, but last week's babe just looks like, you know, some chick. Who happens to be wearing black.

At least all the Gothic Babes here lately have all their limbs. I suppose I'm not the kind of guy who has a thing about amputees.

There are pictures of this weekend, too. I'll do some scanning and throw them online sometime this week, probably. For now, though, here's AA, me and Trish, just outside Jackson Square on Saturday night.

Journals

• Bad Hair Days
• Plaintive Wail
• Humidity and Hebephrenia
• Randomly Ever After
• U9
• Fukushu
• Nature of life...
• DNA Sequencing

A very full weekend has just passed.

Friday morning Sonya and I were at the airport around eight-thirty to pick up Trish, who came winging in from the Bay Area to spend a little vacation time in New Orleans.

From reading her journal, you might get the impression that Trish is a brooding, troubled, cynical figure. This is pure trickery. Trish is a happy, giggly geek. I say geek in the best possible way. She travels heavy and spends money like it's toilet paper. You gotta admire her.

So, after lugging Trish's body bag-size bag out to the car and putting it in the trunk, we headed into town for breakfast at La Peniche. We were chatting and laughing animatedly, having a nice getting-to-know-you-in-person visit, when

BOOM!

You've got to give Sonya credit: she nearly stopped in time. If she'd had another ten feet the Louisiana Badass would have been unscathed.

What happened was some old man ran the stop sign at Burgundy and Esplanade and pulled right out in front of us. Sonya did not scream, Sonya did not swerve. She just tromped the antilock brakes and steered us straight into the other car, a big powder-blue Buick. She gave it a good old-fashioned t-boning; the entire driver's side of his car was crumpled in messily.

As luck would have it a cop was two blocks up Burgundy and heard the wreck. He made it to us before anyone had even gotten out of the cars.

I darted out of the car and ran over to the sidewalk - I wanted to make sure dude had a stop sign and we didn't. It was just that way.

The old man came up to us. "Is everyone okay? I just want to say it's my fault and I'm an idiot. Of course I'm insured."

Sonya and Trish were a bit sore, having been in the front seat, but I was completely unharmed. A little old lady in the back seat of the man's car was hurt, though, so the cop called EMS.

"There's no question of fault," the cop told us as the emergency guys looked at the old woman, "I saw the whole thing. How fast were you going?" He asked Sonya.

"Uh, maybe thirty?" she guessed.

He shook his head. "No way," he told her, and me and Trish as well, "fifteen, maybe twenty, tops. If anybody asks me I'm gonna tell 'em you were going fifteen."

"Fifteen," we all agreed.

"If you'd have given him a twenty he would have told everyone you were stopped," I told Sonya later.

They had to call a tow truck for the other guy's car, I think, but the Badass was just a little scuffed up on the bumper. It should be a cheap fix, but who cares? The other guy's paying for it!

So the traffic cop came, and our insurance guy, and it was a long drawn out motherfucker of a trip to breakfast, let me tell you. Once at La Peniche, Trish was amazed by the cigarette machine in the restaurant itself. Heck, she was amazed by the smokers, too.

After we dropped off Trish's stuff at the house ("Roxy's smaller than I thought," Trish said) we went back out to do tourist stuff. We rode the ferry to Algiers and went to Mardi Gras world - saw some floats for the upcoming Mardi Gras, too. The whole thing was like walking around backstage.

Back across the river we ate beignets and shopped, then went on a massive snacks and liquor run. On the way back from the grocery store a bus was parked awkwardly across Louisiana, blocking most of the road. An SUV managed to get around, though.

"If he can make it you can make it," I told Sonya, "go on around!"

She did, and then proceeded to drive over a curb that juts far out into the road. The front driver's tire immediately went flat.

Was it fun putting all the groceries in the trunk into the back seat so I could get the spare out? No. But I was still proud of myself, because I changed the fuck out of that tire. A NASCAR pit crew would have been proud of me. After takeout dinner and the day's earlier adrenaline rush we all passed out rather early.

I was up stupidly early on Saturday, too, to get a new the tire repaired or replaced. In the morning's light the Louisiana Badass looked a bit rough, with its scuffed front bumper and pitifully undersized donut tire. At the Firestone place the man in charge showed me the two gaping holes that had been knocked in the sidewall. I had a new Michelin installed, thank you very much, 'cause God knows what they make those Firestone tires out of - used erasers, possibly.

Back at the house shortly before lunch we had been joined by...well, another online journal type who would rather remain anonymous. We'll refer to her as Anonymous Aquaintance #0004. Or AA, for short. Anyhoo, AA had joined us, and we merrily paraded out the door to get Chinese food at Kung's Dynasty on St. Charles. AA called her mom from the restaurant to assure her that we had no intentions of killing, ravishing or devouring her daughter.

Then we went to the French Quarter. Lots of shopping. Virgin, the various Gargoyles stores, Limbo, the French Market. AA saw some coworkers there and did a little trimmin'.

We stopped at Molly's for a round of drinks and discussed the strangeness of meeting internet people. As a group, we agreed that this was pretty pleasant gathering, but it held lots of possibilities for weirdness. We were normal, to our mutual great relief.

Dinner at Deja Vu, and Trish got a cup full of cherry bombs (cherries soaked in PGA - is that a local thing or what?) to take on our Haunted History tour. Our guide had a cheesy name (Midian - that's not your real name, dude!) but the tour was both fun and informative. If you come to town that's the tour I'm going to take you one. Now you know. There was even a pub stop in the middle of the tour - very London. You'd approve. Home after the tour, and there was more passing out in the living room. We did a lot of walking.

Oh, and when we were standing around waiting for the tour to begin Trish, Sonya and AA had a very entertaining conversation about the logistics of sucking your own nipples. I really can't recreate it, but if you'd been there you would have laughed.

Sunday was more relaxing. Trish happily napped on the couch while Sonya and I lived and died along with the Saints. Can you believe it? Ricky Williams, the Saints' star running back, broke his ankle and is out 6-8 weeks. This is not good news for a team that's trying to make a playoff run. But I believe.

Well after dark we got all cleaned up and left the house to bowl a few frames at the Rock and Bowl. There was very little rock, though, as no band was playing. However, you must admire a bowling alley that has both a full bar and a stage. Sonya won two games, Trish won one. I was shut out.

Back to the French Quarter for more revelry - Trish got some goodies at a voodoo shop and we had sammiches and fries at Poppy's Grill.

"Eight inches of pure meat pleasure," Trish said, reading the sign advertising the house hot dog.

"I modeled for that!" our waiter piped up.

Then we herded Trish into Pat O's (along with millions of cardiologists - the AHA is in town this week) and got her a hurricane. She walked down Bourbon, drinking and smiling. We ended the evening at Lafitte's, sipping drinks and studying the passing crowd by candlelight.

Up early again on Monday to cram in a few more special moments before Trish left town. We hauled ass out into the rain-soaked countryside to Oak Alley, where one of the docents had a beautiful liquidy Cajun-French accent. I wanted her to read to me all day. Trish took a few pictures and the back to New Orleans, where we took a guided walking tour of the Garden District. We were the only three that showed up, and the guide seemed pleased that two locals were on her tour. It was a long, chatty walk through the Garden District, and now I know where both Trent Reznor and Archie Manning live. Plus, the guide threw in lots of neighborhood gossip that was just great.

And last night we put Trish on a plane after a lovely weekend. You should have Trish come stay with you - she's a pleasant houseguest!