L to R: Donna, Harold, Angie and Jen
Okay, first let me introduce you to the cast of characters.
So this picture was taken at the ragged end of the Wednesday after Mardi Gras. We'd spent the day doing some hardcore tourist crap and we were all looking a bit rough. A few brief introductions:
Donna: A pharmacist, night person and frequent rock and roll road widow. During the course of the trip she constantly showed naked parts of herself to my fellow travellers. I saw not one naked body part and consider myself cheated. Yes, she is that much taller than me. One night she went dancing with Sonya and I and a gang of our friends. She wore four-inch heels and towered majestically over everyone on the dance floor. Then she got drunk and tottered around hilariously before sitting down and letting the other girls try on her shoes.
Me: You know me, don't you? I'm wonderful.
Angie: Angie...Angie, Angie, Angie. What are we going to do with you, hon? To be honest, Angie is one of the sweetest, most caring people I know. She's devoted her life to caring for deaf children and drug-addled teenagers in the most unselfish display of care for her fellow humans since Mother Theresa kicked off. The problem is now she's dating one of the aforementioned drug-addled teenagers. A little selfishness and cynicism would probably make life a lot easier for her, but that's just not Angie's way. She's a chronic substance abuser and tells the most horrid jokes known to man. I love her dearly.
Jen: Jen and I could go on Ricki Lake 'cause we both think we're all that. Jen is an Olympic-class drinker-in-training who directs plays in her spare time. She's the most diehard liberal I know and can make pop-culture references that would make Dennis Miller scratch his head and say, "huh?" She was born exactly one year and two days after me. Coincidence? You'd probably like to think so. She loves Duran Duran and drives a cute little white Miata. She also has the best wardrobe of any female I know.
(Parenthetically, Jen dates James, who has the best wardrobe of any male I know. Combined, their stockpile of tasteful, stylish clothing is very, very striking. They make a damned goodlooking couple. Lately they've taken to wearing each other's clothing [in a unisexual way, not in some kinky Klinger way] and the results have been pleasing. This is a couple to watch in the 21st century.)
Also, Jen hates the word "teats," as in "that cow has a fine set of teats on it." She especially hates it when the word "teats" is used in reference to human female breasts. I've seen her curl up and have something resembling an epileptic siezure when that particular word is used in that way. Remember that - it's important later.
If you'll look closely you'll see that Jen has a small cut just under her lower lip. This occurred during an instance of what I can only call "toilet diving" in my bathroom a week before. That, however, is another story. And not very funny anyway.
I'm sure most of you are asking, "where's Sonya, the love o' Harold's life?" She took the damn picture, silly!
Anyway, here's the story. So we get to New Orleans on Sunday afternoon. We go catch some parades and about midnight we make it back to the hotel. Sonya and Angie are beat - they proclaim they are calling room service and going to bed. Donna, Jen and I are hungry and not really so tired. Therefore the three of us catch a cab to the French Quarter to eat and see some freaks, who are plentiful at Mardi Gras.
I wanted to go to Margaritaville, Jimmy Buffett's burger joint, but the kitchen was closed by the time we got there. I ask the girl at the door "where's some good food quick?" and she points to this shadowy little place across the street. The name of the place escapes me. Jen and Donna and I go over there and eat. And drink beer. A few hours later we stagger out and walk down towards Bourbon Street, where the true entertainment was happening. We took a stroll through the gay part of Bourbon Street (lots of leather, drag queens, and men in tuxedos kissing each other) and stood outside one of the bars, smoking. Inside a man was dancing on the bar, wearing only a sock upon his yang. He was just dancin' away. Every once in a while he'd stop dancing and squat down on the bar. Then the crowd would surge around him and do...something. We couldn't exactly see what they were doing. We did have theories, though. After a while he'd stand back up and the knot of people would break up.
We walked on down the street.
Now if you've never been on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras before this will take a little set-up. You see during Mardi Gras the main distraction (besides drinking unto illness) is getting beads. How you get them is irrelevant. The main means of acquiring beads (cheap little plastic toy beads, really - nothing you couldn't pick up for $1.99 at Wal-Mart) is to have them thrown to you from riders on the floats in the near-constant parades. Another way (frowned upon, but still done) is to show your naked body parts to people with beads. The buildings along Bourbon are old Spanish buildings for the most part - lots of lacy wrought-iron balconies. Are you seeing where this is going? The people on the balconies throw beads to the people in the streets in exchange for indecent exposure...and vice-versa. So the balconies are jammed, the street is impossible and the chant of "show your tits, show your tits" is a constant chorus in the background. Why I saw one nubile little thang with a pair of silicone boobs whup one out and pop it in her mouth, much to the delight of the crowd below her...but I digress.
So Donna and Jen and I are making out way, hand in hand, through the crowd. At one point a string of beads flew through the air and landed in my go-cup. I fished them out, shook them off and draped them around my neck. We finally made it to a fairly open spot where we weren't being constantly pushed and groped. We paused to have a drink, fire up a smoke and study the activity on the balconies around us.
Out of nowhere, on a street clogged with probably ten-thousand people, nine-thousand of them chanting "show your tits," this guy steps up beside Jen, looks up at a girl standing above us, and yells, "show your teats!"
Jen did a fair impression of a gaffed halibut, then fell to the ground, twitching and moaning.
Later in our drunkenness we decided to walk back to our hotel. We got hopelessly lost, though some nice gentleman did comment, "how the fuck did that mothafucka get two bitches?" I really appreciated that. Finally we stopped in some other hotel and asked them if they knew how to get to our hotel. I don't think they really liked that, 'cause the night man gave me directions that took us eight blocks back the way we came and then through what appeared to be a crack dealership - but was actually a bus station.
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