This happens every couple of years. Someone mentions Three Dog Night and then I get this song stuck in my head, and wish people listened to the Elvis version more.
It's impossible for me to sit at my desk and watch this in silence. I start shaking, and my lungs vibrate with life, like I have a mangling, vital addiction to bomb-ass hooks, bellowing lyrics and sequined tuxedos.
We rented a car for the trip home from New Orleans instead of taking the train, riding the Blues Highway up from Nola to Chicago, stopping in Memphis for a couple of hours. Graceland was closed. Of course we did Beale Street, saw the Lorraine Motel...
More days of my life deserve to be devoted to Memphis.
I definitely need to go back and hit up Graceland. Not that I'm the biggest Elvis fan or something, but sometimes? Motherfucker owns.
...
Showing posts with label PDA of NOLA 2009. Show all posts
Showing posts with label PDA of NOLA 2009. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
The City of New Orleans: And Dance by the Light of the Moon
Day Five: Continued.
We’re not in that courtyard for long. Four seconds or so.
Out one door, u-turn right into another, we walk through a small room full of jarred herbs and then right into the altar room. The room itself was small, but splattered with junk.
Every inch of wall adorned itself with chiseled artifacts and drapes of fabric, statues and tokens and everything anyone had left there over the course of the past twenty-five years or so, because in the end, this is a new temple.
In the back of the small room, entertaining two young women sitting on the floor, was Priestess Miriam, cackling like chicken. She had a throne, kind of, a normal chair someone had painted and draped with...I don't know, gauze? Doused in jewelry. Leathery and soft. She sat in front of a coffee table covered with tiny jars of crap, a notebook full of repetitive lines of the same scratchy gibberish, a house phone and a big old jar full of something.
We browse, touching nothing, conquered by this treasure altar of garbage and crap and love. People left cigarettes, lollipops, sticks of gum, pencils, pennies, whatever they could as offerings to whatever divine element. Thousands of coins just lying all over the floors and the tables, in scattered piles and mason towers. Dollar bills stuffed themselves in the corners, the hands of statues, crammed into any open crevice. Dried fish, cracked ballet slippers, golf balls, sketches and photographs, burned out candles…a freaking hubcap. Everything drips onto something else.
After a couple of minutes the two girls stand up and say their goodbyes, and Priestess Miriam opens up her jar and takes a long sip.
"Girls. Come on."
We all look around. Did she mean us? She wants to talk to us?
So we step towards her. The incense is lush. You can't help but move slowly, flowing with the simple extravagance of the room. With a slight lift of your foot you can feel the thickness of your limbs, the thickness of air, you swim through that room with a heavy, hesitant ease.
Muffy slowly guides us towards Priestess Miriam and chooses a chair, and the other three girls settle onto the floor while I sit on the remaining chair. Not so much on it as in it. Its paint and limbs moan.
"Wha' can I do for you girls?" our Priestess mumbles.
How about give me some of whatever’s in that jar?
We’re silently trying to connect our eyes, hoping someone will speak first, trying to remain courteous while scanning the collection of bones and canisters, pots and jars, ceramic and glass, bike handlebars. Forks. Napkins scrawled with prayers. A dumpster of hope and gorgeous, fleeting, trashy belief.
"Well, I have a prayer request..." Muffy hesitates, leaning forward.
The Voodoo Priestess leans back and pulls a scarred hand up to her temple. "Thass a heavy requess. Wha di you have in mine?"
"Well, ummm..." Muffy suggests, fumbling. "To uh...to make good decisions."
"Ohhhh, Lord. Wha dya need to desside? Iz i' something like, for a jahb, or for a...something more impohtin? Becuz..." she's interrupted by that phone. She stops talking completely, staring at it, waiting for the ringing to stop. "I'm poplar today! You know how that iz. Somedays you have no one, talkin' to the mine and the head, wondrin' where you--" deep sigh "--gotta be. An' then somedays you gotta be...e'rywhere alls atwonce." She spasm slightly, and leans back and laughs, loud and shriekish, hiding her face in her hands.
Muffy and I both laughed, uncomfortably. This bitch crazy.
In a good way.
"I gotta whet my whistle." She takes another sip from that jar in front of her. Moonshine? Totally. There are bottles of rum and whiskey littered throughout the room, full and half-full, hidden between handmade dolls and guitar branches.
Priestess Miriam starts chatting away, pausing strategically to grab the arm of her chair and cackle and squeal at her own jokes that none of us quite understand. She rambles for a good half hour, somewhat incoherent, but eloquently so, about politics, choices, living in Chicago.
Oh, she’s originally from Mississippi, but she lived in Chicago for years, where she met Priest Oswan and planned on running away with him to Belize, leaving behind her children, the church where she acted as bishop on the South side, her job at the hospital. And they stopped in New Orleans on their way to Belize, founded this temple, and never looked back.
I feel heavy and try to concentrate on her words, because they seem to make sense, but I have no idea what she says half the time. She pauses only in her story to stare at the randomly ringing phone, cackle at the sky. Grab the arm of her chair, sip from the jar. All hopped up on spirits.
She asks what we do for a living, what brought us to New Orleans. We tell her about the soup kitchen and the train, and she spirals into some story about how no one cared about New Orleans until a catastrophe, and now everyone wants to help. Shouldn’t they want to help the places that are always in trouble, all the time?
Sometimes, I think she takes little jabs at us, as Priestess, as a beautiful, drunken, philosophical savant. No, I know she does. She flat out makes fun of us. Not to diminish our self-worth, but as a matter of perspective. What do five white girls from the Midwest know about life in New Orleans?
Because in the end, when we take our turns explaining our jobs, we aren’t a group of young women who are individually on sabbatical, teaching special ed, finishing our masters, building playgrounds, and raising money for inner-city schools, who collectively choose to head out to New Orleans to volunteer at a soup kitchen. We are unemployed, an instructor, a wayward student, a salesperson, and an office manager, and we’re on fucking Spring Break.
...
We’re not in that courtyard for long. Four seconds or so.
Out one door, u-turn right into another, we walk through a small room full of jarred herbs and then right into the altar room. The room itself was small, but splattered with junk.
Every inch of wall adorned itself with chiseled artifacts and drapes of fabric, statues and tokens and everything anyone had left there over the course of the past twenty-five years or so, because in the end, this is a new temple.
In the back of the small room, entertaining two young women sitting on the floor, was Priestess Miriam, cackling like chicken. She had a throne, kind of, a normal chair someone had painted and draped with...I don't know, gauze? Doused in jewelry. Leathery and soft. She sat in front of a coffee table covered with tiny jars of crap, a notebook full of repetitive lines of the same scratchy gibberish, a house phone and a big old jar full of something.
We browse, touching nothing, conquered by this treasure altar of garbage and crap and love. People left cigarettes, lollipops, sticks of gum, pencils, pennies, whatever they could as offerings to whatever divine element. Thousands of coins just lying all over the floors and the tables, in scattered piles and mason towers. Dollar bills stuffed themselves in the corners, the hands of statues, crammed into any open crevice. Dried fish, cracked ballet slippers, golf balls, sketches and photographs, burned out candles…a freaking hubcap. Everything drips onto something else.
After a couple of minutes the two girls stand up and say their goodbyes, and Priestess Miriam opens up her jar and takes a long sip.
"Girls. Come on."
We all look around. Did she mean us? She wants to talk to us?
So we step towards her. The incense is lush. You can't help but move slowly, flowing with the simple extravagance of the room. With a slight lift of your foot you can feel the thickness of your limbs, the thickness of air, you swim through that room with a heavy, hesitant ease.
Muffy slowly guides us towards Priestess Miriam and chooses a chair, and the other three girls settle onto the floor while I sit on the remaining chair. Not so much on it as in it. Its paint and limbs moan.
"Wha' can I do for you girls?" our Priestess mumbles.
How about give me some of whatever’s in that jar?
We’re silently trying to connect our eyes, hoping someone will speak first, trying to remain courteous while scanning the collection of bones and canisters, pots and jars, ceramic and glass, bike handlebars. Forks. Napkins scrawled with prayers. A dumpster of hope and gorgeous, fleeting, trashy belief.
"Well, I have a prayer request..." Muffy hesitates, leaning forward.
The Voodoo Priestess leans back and pulls a scarred hand up to her temple. "Thass a heavy requess. Wha di you have in mine?"
"Well, ummm..." Muffy suggests, fumbling. "To uh...to make good decisions."
"Ohhhh, Lord. Wha dya need to desside? Iz i' something like, for a jahb, or for a...something more impohtin? Becuz..." she's interrupted by that phone. She stops talking completely, staring at it, waiting for the ringing to stop. "I'm poplar today! You know how that iz. Somedays you have no one, talkin' to the mine and the head, wondrin' where you--" deep sigh "--gotta be. An' then somedays you gotta be...e'rywhere alls atwonce." She spasm slightly, and leans back and laughs, loud and shriekish, hiding her face in her hands.
Muffy and I both laughed, uncomfortably. This bitch crazy.
In a good way.
"I gotta whet my whistle." She takes another sip from that jar in front of her. Moonshine? Totally. There are bottles of rum and whiskey littered throughout the room, full and half-full, hidden between handmade dolls and guitar branches.
Priestess Miriam starts chatting away, pausing strategically to grab the arm of her chair and cackle and squeal at her own jokes that none of us quite understand. She rambles for a good half hour, somewhat incoherent, but eloquently so, about politics, choices, living in Chicago.
Oh, she’s originally from Mississippi, but she lived in Chicago for years, where she met Priest Oswan and planned on running away with him to Belize, leaving behind her children, the church where she acted as bishop on the South side, her job at the hospital. And they stopped in New Orleans on their way to Belize, founded this temple, and never looked back.
I feel heavy and try to concentrate on her words, because they seem to make sense, but I have no idea what she says half the time. She pauses only in her story to stare at the randomly ringing phone, cackle at the sky. Grab the arm of her chair, sip from the jar. All hopped up on spirits.
She asks what we do for a living, what brought us to New Orleans. We tell her about the soup kitchen and the train, and she spirals into some story about how no one cared about New Orleans until a catastrophe, and now everyone wants to help. Shouldn’t they want to help the places that are always in trouble, all the time?
Sometimes, I think she takes little jabs at us, as Priestess, as a beautiful, drunken, philosophical savant. No, I know she does. She flat out makes fun of us. Not to diminish our self-worth, but as a matter of perspective. What do five white girls from the Midwest know about life in New Orleans?
Because in the end, when we take our turns explaining our jobs, we aren’t a group of young women who are individually on sabbatical, teaching special ed, finishing our masters, building playgrounds, and raising money for inner-city schools, who collectively choose to head out to New Orleans to volunteer at a soup kitchen. We are unemployed, an instructor, a wayward student, a salesperson, and an office manager, and we’re on fucking Spring Break.
...
Thursday, April 9, 2009
The City of New Orleans: In Which I Judge Everything Unfairly
Day Five.
Jeffrey Faar is a big fat liar.
After a hasty breakfast of peanut butter and jelly (I ran out of money) on Wednesday morning, we embarked on the mile hike to Jackson Square from our hotel to get our buggy tour. The son of a bitch wasn't there. So Muffy went to go talk to a manager, to make sure we weren't getting all yanked around. Jeffrey Faar had the day off.
I guess I'm not surprised, in the end. He was from Detroit. Can't trust people from Detroit. Even their ghosts are broken.
Eventually we made our way over to the Voodoo Spiritual Temple, to sate my irrational preoccupation with every religion ever. I'm not quite sure what it is, but any organized process or belief or practice that declares an absolute truth is fascinating, and I want to learn about all of them.
It's not really a "temple" in the sense you're thinking. It's a store. There's a sign on the doorway reminding us to move slowly and peacefully, and then you can buy all sorts of spiritual essentials, like bags of fucking dirt. Then there's sage bundles, cute little bottles of bullshit oils. Everything smells like nag champa. Why don't places use straight up sandalwood? Nag's infused with it anyway, and it smells lighter and cleaner.
Besides, isn't this supposed to be a Voodoo place? Shouldn't it smell like geraniums, or jasmine?
So I'm unimpressed. I've seen better head shops and faux apothecaries at the mall.
There's a back door leading into a green courtyard with a sign over it that says, "Please Ask To See The Altar." Booyah.
While everyone is browsing, I head straight for the frazzled woman behind the counter. "Excuse me." She looks up. Grab her eyes. "Hi. Do you think we could see the altar?"
"Oh. Um, I don't...I mean, I'm not quite...um...sure. have to...ummmm, see? I think..." and she continued to mumble, with this soft, tiny voice, and I immediately can't fucking stand her. I could break you with my hand, woman. I nodded slowly at her, smiling lightly, urging her with my eyes to either shut the fuck up or go see whatever it is she needed to see.
I have the nasty habit of immediately judging someone solely on the sound of their voice. It's an ineffective system. But I do it anyway. I mean, I have a naturally loud, deep voice. My "quiet voice" is your normal volume. It's obnoxious, really, and it probably embarrasses my friends. I'm trying, but whenever I soften, I feel the vibrations of leftover volume in my throat, and shove it back down to wherever it came from, and then sing louder in the car next time.
The Rossi family, in general, is sonorous. Not my mom so much, but then again she's not technically a Rossi, and is nowhere near as high-strung. Compared to the rest of them, I'm calmer, and way less publicly domineering. And I can be a real fucking wrecking ball.
Because I know I'm louder, I have a tendency to talk over people with those tiny, frail voices. It's a power thing. Some people make it too easy, and I have to stop myself from patronizing.
"Do you have to ask someone?” I ask lightly.
“Oh, well, yes, I think Priestess Miriam is, um, back there with, I don’t know…maybe, someone…”
“Take your time, it’s cool.” Smile. “We’re just gonna look around.”
She looks relieved. “Oh, okay.”
“I’m going in that room back there. Is that okay?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, that’s fine.”
“Thanks.” I walk back there and she scuttles past me and into the courtyard. They’ve got more useless junk in this room. I do like these sweet little handmade guitars they’ve got all over the place, but I just don’t get the jewelry and the smelly stuff. Then again, I don’t wear jewelry. And I don’t wear smelly stuff.
That’s a lie. I have a bottle of perfume I call “the pink cap” because someone left it in my car once and it has a pink cap. Usually I forget that I have it, and I put it on only when I go somewhere that involves guys that aren’t my friends. And then I can smell myself, because I put too much on, and wash it off. Same thing with make-up. It always gets wiped off, and then there’s make-uppy residue and I look retarded. I'm not very good at being pretty.
So there are pictures of Priestess Miriam all over the walls, with snakes and drums and elaborate costumes made of nets and stuff. Fetish masks, wooden dolls, a Creole carving of a slaveship. Some of it's beautiful, and some of it's crap.
The frail counter lady comes back into the room with a newfound confidence. “Um, Priestess Miriam is with guests, but you're welcome to look at the altar.”
She says the same thing to my friends, and we all head towards the courtyard.
...
Jeffrey Faar is a big fat liar.
After a hasty breakfast of peanut butter and jelly (I ran out of money) on Wednesday morning, we embarked on the mile hike to Jackson Square from our hotel to get our buggy tour. The son of a bitch wasn't there. So Muffy went to go talk to a manager, to make sure we weren't getting all yanked around. Jeffrey Faar had the day off.
I guess I'm not surprised, in the end. He was from Detroit. Can't trust people from Detroit. Even their ghosts are broken.
Eventually we made our way over to the Voodoo Spiritual Temple, to sate my irrational preoccupation with every religion ever. I'm not quite sure what it is, but any organized process or belief or practice that declares an absolute truth is fascinating, and I want to learn about all of them.
It's not really a "temple" in the sense you're thinking. It's a store. There's a sign on the doorway reminding us to move slowly and peacefully, and then you can buy all sorts of spiritual essentials, like bags of fucking dirt. Then there's sage bundles, cute little bottles of bullshit oils. Everything smells like nag champa. Why don't places use straight up sandalwood? Nag's infused with it anyway, and it smells lighter and cleaner.
Besides, isn't this supposed to be a Voodoo place? Shouldn't it smell like geraniums, or jasmine?
So I'm unimpressed. I've seen better head shops and faux apothecaries at the mall.
There's a back door leading into a green courtyard with a sign over it that says, "Please Ask To See The Altar." Booyah.
While everyone is browsing, I head straight for the frazzled woman behind the counter. "Excuse me." She looks up. Grab her eyes. "Hi. Do you think we could see the altar?"
"Oh. Um, I don't...I mean, I'm not quite...um...sure. have to...ummmm, see? I think..." and she continued to mumble, with this soft, tiny voice, and I immediately can't fucking stand her. I could break you with my hand, woman. I nodded slowly at her, smiling lightly, urging her with my eyes to either shut the fuck up or go see whatever it is she needed to see.
I have the nasty habit of immediately judging someone solely on the sound of their voice. It's an ineffective system. But I do it anyway. I mean, I have a naturally loud, deep voice. My "quiet voice" is your normal volume. It's obnoxious, really, and it probably embarrasses my friends. I'm trying, but whenever I soften, I feel the vibrations of leftover volume in my throat, and shove it back down to wherever it came from, and then sing louder in the car next time.
The Rossi family, in general, is sonorous. Not my mom so much, but then again she's not technically a Rossi, and is nowhere near as high-strung. Compared to the rest of them, I'm calmer, and way less publicly domineering. And I can be a real fucking wrecking ball.
Because I know I'm louder, I have a tendency to talk over people with those tiny, frail voices. It's a power thing. Some people make it too easy, and I have to stop myself from patronizing.
"Do you have to ask someone?” I ask lightly.
“Oh, well, yes, I think Priestess Miriam is, um, back there with, I don’t know…maybe, someone…”
“Take your time, it’s cool.” Smile. “We’re just gonna look around.”
She looks relieved. “Oh, okay.”
“I’m going in that room back there. Is that okay?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, that’s fine.”
“Thanks.” I walk back there and she scuttles past me and into the courtyard. They’ve got more useless junk in this room. I do like these sweet little handmade guitars they’ve got all over the place, but I just don’t get the jewelry and the smelly stuff. Then again, I don’t wear jewelry. And I don’t wear smelly stuff.
That’s a lie. I have a bottle of perfume I call “the pink cap” because someone left it in my car once and it has a pink cap. Usually I forget that I have it, and I put it on only when I go somewhere that involves guys that aren’t my friends. And then I can smell myself, because I put too much on, and wash it off. Same thing with make-up. It always gets wiped off, and then there’s make-uppy residue and I look retarded. I'm not very good at being pretty.
So there are pictures of Priestess Miriam all over the walls, with snakes and drums and elaborate costumes made of nets and stuff. Fetish masks, wooden dolls, a Creole carving of a slaveship. Some of it's beautiful, and some of it's crap.
The frail counter lady comes back into the room with a newfound confidence. “Um, Priestess Miriam is with guests, but you're welcome to look at the altar.”
She says the same thing to my friends, and we all head towards the courtyard.
...
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The City of New Orleans: A Killer Combination
Day Four.
It was much easier to wake up that Tuesday than I expected. Which is a good thing, because after a whole lot of drunk talk the night before, we promised Tom Turner that we'd eat his Lucky Dogs.
Like I mentioned in that drunk blog, we met Tom Turner hanging out in front of a liquor store with a rusted tackle box and a fishing pole, and he and Margaret got to talkin' 'bout fishin'. That girl knows her shit, but I was slightly stumbly and slurry, and I know absolutely nothing about fishing so I can't even faux a retrospective dialogue.
So we were Turner’s first customers on Tuesday morning, and I'm not gonna lie: he served up the most disgusting hot dog I've ever eaten. It's not like I expected high-class Chicago dogs, but it tasted like someone baffed into a meat grinder and linked it up for stupid, drunken New Orleans tourists who keep their stupid, drunken promises to dirty old stupid, drunken fishermen.
Luckily we were scheduled to be at LaFitte's Blacksmith Shop at noon for a cemetery tour and "the best bloody marys in town," because there's nothing like bloody, spicy, vodka-y goodness to carve away the taste of vile-ass hot dogs.
We get there early and strike up a conversation with a chatty old guy at the bar, who was all sorts of yellow. Yellowish hair, matching teeth. Yellowing fingertips fondling a newspaper and a cigarette. He sounds like he lost his voice fifteen years ago, straining for volume ever since. He offers to take a picture of us, and rambles on and on about restaurants we should visit and places to see, and tells us he’s a buggy driver and gives tours.
“You’re a buggy driver? Can I ask you a question?” I’m interested in this.
“Sure, but I think you just did.” He smiles. Yellowly.
“Why mules?”
“Oh, they're just more sure-footed, better suited for the heat than horses. Easier to feed, easier to train, you know.” He hands me his Official Buggy Driver Tour Guide card: Jeffrey Faar. He offers to take us on a buggy tour the next day, seeing as he’s got today off. A Grand Tour for us, he says. We're all for it. Fuck yeah, buggy tour with Jeffrey Faar.
While we're talking, Bloody Mary shows up. She’s our actual tour guide of the day, slightly snobby, highly spiritual, and crazy-educated on New Orleans history.
“Is one of you Muffy?” she asks, thudding her purse on the middle of our table.
“Yep, that’s me,” Muffy answers.
“Hello, Muffy, I’m Bloody Mary.” She turns her battered blonde head towards the bar. “Sweetie, can I get a seltzer water? With a lime.”
The bartender nods, annoyed at being called, “sweetie,” and does his job.
She lights a cigarette and makes small talk about our trip, ignoring Jeffrey Faar, who momentarily turns back to his newspaper. Her voice has a husky, irritable, sultry authority, like a condescending Jessica Rabbit who believes she's the patron saint of knowledge.
“What kinda tour you gals doin?” Jeffrey Faar hollers from behind me.
“Cemetery, and strolling through the French Quarter for a little bit of history about lost souls and local legends and...mysticism.” She flirts when she speaks, punctuating her words with little shrugs and suggestive eyebrows.
“Oh, cemetery tour huh?” He gestures to his newspaper. “You hear about that murder last night—“
“No, I don’t really read the newspaper,” she interrupts, crossing her legs. Finite.
“Oh. You goin up to Lafay-yett?”
"No, St. Louis. Actually, in an oddly poetic way, there was a suicide at Lafayette cemetery--"
There's a hacking cough, and Jeffrey Faar chimes in, "GEORGE?"
"Yes, George--"
"I knew him; he was a buggy driver!"
"Yes, he was. So's my husband. Actually—"
"He killed himself?" I interject, because of course I want in on this.
"What happened?" someone else asks. I have no idea who. Bloody marys make everything warm and forgetful.
"He got drunk and, well, went all on up to Lafay-yett,” Jeffrey Faar pokes his thumb towards the open doorway behind him, “an-an-and blew his brains out under a tree."
"Wow, that's a shame." Echoes and awkward sips all around.
"I actually performed a ritual ceremony for his mother and sister, it was really very sad,” Blood Mary says, somber.
"What happened?" I'm pretty sure that was Bobbay.
"Oh, well he was a manic depressive, you know," Jeffrey Faar puts down his cigarette and turns from his newspaper. "An' on toppa that a drinker."
"Ohhhhhh." Because we all understand drinker.
"An' you know that's lit-trally a killer combination."
"His family wanted a very private ceremony, too, because of just that,” Bloody Mary wisely nods, adjusting her leopard-print hoody. Seriously. Leopard.
"An’ so he was drinking, an’ with the medication an’ all that, an’ his mind couldn't handle it an’ so he blew his brains out----ahhhh, shoot," and Jeffrey Faar starts swatting the newspaper smoking beside him, flinging his burning, neglected cigarette off of page six and onto the floor.
"I burned page six," he calls to the bartender. "Sorry. I'm gonna get you another one, they're right down the street."
“Don’t worry about it, man,” the bartender responds from the back room.
Jeffrey Faar ignores him and continues talking to us, batting the newspaper. "Yeah an’ they had to cut down that tree, too. They say it's not because of George, and it's gotta be because of all the blood an’ brains on it or something."
Bloody Mary furrows. "No...I don't think that's true."
"Oh, well, that's just what I hear." And then he tries to convince her that the trumpet-playing angel over Louis Prima’s grave houses the soul of Prima and therefore his face, and where exactly you turn to get to see clearly it at whatever angle. Bloody Mary is skeptical and argumentative and bored with the conversation, telling him he's completely wrong while checking her red-as-hell lipstick in a pocket mirror.
Eventually, nearly mid-sentence and without warning, Jeffrey Faar up and hops on the bike resting next to the door and rides away, no goodbye or nothing.
“Did he just leave?” I look at Muffy.<
“Hyeah. He totally did.”
“Fucking whatever, man, I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
Bloody Mary starts with her elaborate, well-acted history lesson, dismissing Jeffrey Faar completely. It’s interesting, really.
Then just before we leave, Jeffrey Faar returns to the bar, fresh newspaper in hand. As we leave the bar for the tour, he yells after us, in that taut, rasping voice of his,“You girls have fun!”
I make sure to shake his hand. “See you tomorrow, Jeffrey Faar.”
...
It was much easier to wake up that Tuesday than I expected. Which is a good thing, because after a whole lot of drunk talk the night before, we promised Tom Turner that we'd eat his Lucky Dogs.
Like I mentioned in that drunk blog, we met Tom Turner hanging out in front of a liquor store with a rusted tackle box and a fishing pole, and he and Margaret got to talkin' 'bout fishin'. That girl knows her shit, but I was slightly stumbly and slurry, and I know absolutely nothing about fishing so I can't even faux a retrospective dialogue.
So we were Turner’s first customers on Tuesday morning, and I'm not gonna lie: he served up the most disgusting hot dog I've ever eaten. It's not like I expected high-class Chicago dogs, but it tasted like someone baffed into a meat grinder and linked it up for stupid, drunken New Orleans tourists who keep their stupid, drunken promises to dirty old stupid, drunken fishermen.
Luckily we were scheduled to be at LaFitte's Blacksmith Shop at noon for a cemetery tour and "the best bloody marys in town," because there's nothing like bloody, spicy, vodka-y goodness to carve away the taste of vile-ass hot dogs.
We get there early and strike up a conversation with a chatty old guy at the bar, who was all sorts of yellow. Yellowish hair, matching teeth. Yellowing fingertips fondling a newspaper and a cigarette. He sounds like he lost his voice fifteen years ago, straining for volume ever since. He offers to take a picture of us, and rambles on and on about restaurants we should visit and places to see, and tells us he’s a buggy driver and gives tours.
“You’re a buggy driver? Can I ask you a question?” I’m interested in this.
“Sure, but I think you just did.” He smiles. Yellowly.
“Why mules?”
“Oh, they're just more sure-footed, better suited for the heat than horses. Easier to feed, easier to train, you know.” He hands me his Official Buggy Driver Tour Guide card: Jeffrey Faar. He offers to take us on a buggy tour the next day, seeing as he’s got today off. A Grand Tour for us, he says. We're all for it. Fuck yeah, buggy tour with Jeffrey Faar.
While we're talking, Bloody Mary shows up. She’s our actual tour guide of the day, slightly snobby, highly spiritual, and crazy-educated on New Orleans history.
“Is one of you Muffy?” she asks, thudding her purse on the middle of our table.
“Yep, that’s me,” Muffy answers.
“Hello, Muffy, I’m Bloody Mary.” She turns her battered blonde head towards the bar. “Sweetie, can I get a seltzer water? With a lime.”
The bartender nods, annoyed at being called, “sweetie,” and does his job.
She lights a cigarette and makes small talk about our trip, ignoring Jeffrey Faar, who momentarily turns back to his newspaper. Her voice has a husky, irritable, sultry authority, like a condescending Jessica Rabbit who believes she's the patron saint of knowledge.
“What kinda tour you gals doin?” Jeffrey Faar hollers from behind me.
“Cemetery, and strolling through the French Quarter for a little bit of history about lost souls and local legends and...mysticism.” She flirts when she speaks, punctuating her words with little shrugs and suggestive eyebrows.
“Oh, cemetery tour huh?” He gestures to his newspaper. “You hear about that murder last night—“
“No, I don’t really read the newspaper,” she interrupts, crossing her legs. Finite.
“Oh. You goin up to Lafay-yett?”
"No, St. Louis. Actually, in an oddly poetic way, there was a suicide at Lafayette cemetery--"
There's a hacking cough, and Jeffrey Faar chimes in, "GEORGE?"
"Yes, George--"
"I knew him; he was a buggy driver!"
"Yes, he was. So's my husband. Actually—"
"He killed himself?" I interject, because of course I want in on this.
"What happened?" someone else asks. I have no idea who. Bloody marys make everything warm and forgetful.
"He got drunk and, well, went all on up to Lafay-yett,” Jeffrey Faar pokes his thumb towards the open doorway behind him, “an-an-and blew his brains out under a tree."
"Wow, that's a shame." Echoes and awkward sips all around.
"I actually performed a ritual ceremony for his mother and sister, it was really very sad,” Blood Mary says, somber.
"What happened?" I'm pretty sure that was Bobbay.
"Oh, well he was a manic depressive, you know," Jeffrey Faar puts down his cigarette and turns from his newspaper. "An' on toppa that a drinker."
"Ohhhhhh." Because we all understand drinker.
"An' you know that's lit-trally a killer combination."
"His family wanted a very private ceremony, too, because of just that,” Bloody Mary wisely nods, adjusting her leopard-print hoody. Seriously. Leopard.
"An’ so he was drinking, an’ with the medication an’ all that, an’ his mind couldn't handle it an’ so he blew his brains out----ahhhh, shoot," and Jeffrey Faar starts swatting the newspaper smoking beside him, flinging his burning, neglected cigarette off of page six and onto the floor.
"I burned page six," he calls to the bartender. "Sorry. I'm gonna get you another one, they're right down the street."
“Don’t worry about it, man,” the bartender responds from the back room.
Jeffrey Faar ignores him and continues talking to us, batting the newspaper. "Yeah an’ they had to cut down that tree, too. They say it's not because of George, and it's gotta be because of all the blood an’ brains on it or something."
Bloody Mary furrows. "No...I don't think that's true."
"Oh, well, that's just what I hear." And then he tries to convince her that the trumpet-playing angel over Louis Prima’s grave houses the soul of Prima and therefore his face, and where exactly you turn to get to see clearly it at whatever angle. Bloody Mary is skeptical and argumentative and bored with the conversation, telling him he's completely wrong while checking her red-as-hell lipstick in a pocket mirror.
Eventually, nearly mid-sentence and without warning, Jeffrey Faar up and hops on the bike resting next to the door and rides away, no goodbye or nothing.
“Did he just leave?” I look at Muffy.<
“Hyeah. He totally did.”
“Fucking whatever, man, I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
Bloody Mary starts with her elaborate, well-acted history lesson, dismissing Jeffrey Faar completely. It’s interesting, really.
Then just before we leave, Jeffrey Faar returns to the bar, fresh newspaper in hand. As we leave the bar for the tour, he yells after us, in that taut, rasping voice of his,“You girls have fun!”
I make sure to shake his hand. “See you tomorrow, Jeffrey Faar.”
...
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The City of New Orleans: Professional Drinkers Association
Day Three.
Because of the shatness of Bourbon Street, on Monday night we bought PBR silos and loitered on the sidewalk behind the cathedral in Jackson Square Park. Okay, sure, technically only Coors Light comes in silos, being the silver bullet and everything [nards] but you can't full well call a 24 oz can of heaven a tallboy when it's more than a tall order and you're drinking double the pleasure. So "silo" it is.
After striding around the block for awhile, two dirty crackheads plopped next to us on the sidewalk. We carried on conversations within our own individual groups, laughed at the same jokes and threw sporadic conversational interjections at each other.
A stranger ambled up after about half an hour, saddled with a low-slung back pack and munching out of a box of Crunch Berries with a long-handled spoon.
"Hey strangeh," called a crackhead. "Where yeh headin'?"
"Down Frenchmen street. There's a [some musical style] band playing at [some bar] and they got [some drink specials.]"
"Niiiiiice. I'll be headin down theah lateh."
"Cooo, maybe I'll see ya."
"Aiight. I'll be lookin fer the boxxah Crunch Berries." They exchanged smiles and a handslapfingersnap, and Crunch Berry Guy drifted away with his box and spoon.
I looked at Muffy. "I am hungry. And that guy was awesome."
"Dude. Yes."
"He is not an amateur."
"Hell no, that guy's definitely a professional. I'll bet he gets paid to be fucked up."
"I would pay him to be fucked up."
"I would give you half."
"And then I'd double his fucking salary."
"Crunch Berry Guy is so pro he's got a Masters In Professional Fuckedupness."
"Yeah, but that M.P.F. was bestowed upon him in the streets. Being a Professional in a field such as ours is a natural talent. That's some shit you can't learn at Tulane."
"Fuck Tulane."
"Unless he went to Kellogg. Now that's a school for Professional management."
"HAH! For sure, dude. And Crunch Berry guy manages to mix business and cereal."
"Dude, cereal is business. That's what they teach you at Kellogg."
"Cereal is serious business."
"They should really leave cereal for the Professionals."
"PDA 2009, dude. P. D. A."
We hung out there for a couple of hours before wandering back to the hotel, where I ate some Cheetos, wrote a drunk blog, and then convinced Muffy and Amber to head back out with me.
I led them to the casino across the street. I was just itching to play craps. Seriously itching. Took twenty dollars cash and an ID, because if I'd had plastic on me I would have diced my ass off. Nearly two hours of craps and free drinks, and I passed out back at the hotel with fifteen still in my pocket. Muffy and Amber weren't as lucky, but then again, they don't play craps.
And I am a Professional.
But the highlight of the night was back on the sidewalk, leaning against the fence behind that cathedral.
"I came here twenty-two years ago with my dad--" the older dirty crackhead began, his voice surprisingly clear and pleasant, without an ounce of the grit we expected, "--and he was like, I'll be right back."
He paused to light a cigarette, taking a long, slow drag. "I'm still waiting," he exhales in an expert stream of smoke. "He never came back."
We exchanged secret glances, listening in on his confession.
"So I fucking went to Mardi Gras and sold my roller skates for crack."
...
Because of the shatness of Bourbon Street, on Monday night we bought PBR silos and loitered on the sidewalk behind the cathedral in Jackson Square Park. Okay, sure, technically only Coors Light comes in silos, being the silver bullet and everything [nards] but you can't full well call a 24 oz can of heaven a tallboy when it's more than a tall order and you're drinking double the pleasure. So "silo" it is.
After striding around the block for awhile, two dirty crackheads plopped next to us on the sidewalk. We carried on conversations within our own individual groups, laughed at the same jokes and threw sporadic conversational interjections at each other.
A stranger ambled up after about half an hour, saddled with a low-slung back pack and munching out of a box of Crunch Berries with a long-handled spoon.
"Hey strangeh," called a crackhead. "Where yeh headin'?"
"Down Frenchmen street. There's a [some musical style] band playing at [some bar] and they got [some drink specials.]"
"Niiiiiice. I'll be headin down theah lateh."
"Cooo, maybe I'll see ya."
"Aiight. I'll be lookin fer the boxxah Crunch Berries." They exchanged smiles and a handslapfingersnap, and Crunch Berry Guy drifted away with his box and spoon.
I looked at Muffy. "I am hungry. And that guy was awesome."
"Dude. Yes."
"He is not an amateur."
"Hell no, that guy's definitely a professional. I'll bet he gets paid to be fucked up."
"I would pay him to be fucked up."
"I would give you half."
"And then I'd double his fucking salary."
"Crunch Berry Guy is so pro he's got a Masters In Professional Fuckedupness."
"Yeah, but that M.P.F. was bestowed upon him in the streets. Being a Professional in a field such as ours is a natural talent. That's some shit you can't learn at Tulane."
"Fuck Tulane."
"Unless he went to Kellogg. Now that's a school for Professional management."
"HAH! For sure, dude. And Crunch Berry guy manages to mix business and cereal."
"Dude, cereal is business. That's what they teach you at Kellogg."
"Cereal is serious business."
"They should really leave cereal for the Professionals."
"PDA 2009, dude. P. D. A."
We hung out there for a couple of hours before wandering back to the hotel, where I ate some Cheetos, wrote a drunk blog, and then convinced Muffy and Amber to head back out with me.
I led them to the casino across the street. I was just itching to play craps. Seriously itching. Took twenty dollars cash and an ID, because if I'd had plastic on me I would have diced my ass off. Nearly two hours of craps and free drinks, and I passed out back at the hotel with fifteen still in my pocket. Muffy and Amber weren't as lucky, but then again, they don't play craps.
And I am a Professional.
But the highlight of the night was back on the sidewalk, leaning against the fence behind that cathedral.
"I came here twenty-two years ago with my dad--" the older dirty crackhead began, his voice surprisingly clear and pleasant, without an ounce of the grit we expected, "--and he was like, I'll be right back."
He paused to light a cigarette, taking a long, slow drag. "I'm still waiting," he exhales in an expert stream of smoke. "He never came back."
We exchanged secret glances, listening in on his confession.
"So I fucking went to Mardi Gras and sold my roller skates for crack."
...
Monday, March 30, 2009
The City of New Orleans: The Perception of Cool
Day Two.
As we eased into New Orleans on Sunday afternoon, once again, Muffy took it upon herself to play that song again on speakers, for the train to hear. This time, however, all of the patrons that we'd befriended over the past several hours sang along with us.
There was this old Irish woman whose son lived in Kankakee, IL, and got all excited when Willie dropped the town name in the song. A gentleman from Memphis kept on singing out, "Good morning, America, how are ya?" on repeat, laughing in embarrassment, but playing along anyway. Others, too, whose names and life situations I completely forget.
It was like living in the jaunty, annoyingly elevated and rosy minds of Rodgers and Hammerstein. Secretly, I loved it, and in my head, a motley crew of strangers harvested complex vocal harmonies and shared rhythmic dance sequences with the steel rails of the train, and singers dropped their personal lines with smiling, coaxing asides to scowling passengers who eventually realized that they needed to lighten up and live, dammit, and in the end succumb to the raw power of Willie Nelson and his proverbial back-up singers.
Jesus, I don't even know if that made sense.
We stepped onto the platform, twenty minutes after the song was over, and people were still humming the tune, singing with each other.
In the end, though, I think everyone was just really excited to get off the goddamn train.
Immediately the five of us snagged a cab and headed straight to a show at the Dragon's Den, packs and all, just so we could watch a band from Indiana that we see all the frakking time in Chicago.
On our way to the show, our cab dragged behind a short man in a vest and fedora riding a doubledecker lamplighter bicycle and balancing a live rooster on its high horse handlebars.
The Dragon's Den is on the border of the French Quarter and Bywater, littered with those heroin chic little crust punk fuckers.
You know the type. The ones who are trying so hard to express their individuality through fashion, and in the end just all look like a clan of dirty little homeless people, with torn clothing and too much eyeliner. The punk-punched leftovers of last night's party...why do they try so hard to be each other? Individuality should be effortless.
Just as an aside, to the naysaying elitists: the harder you try to be different, the more of yourself you will lose. You are conforming to the movement of non-conformity, and there's already tens of thousands hiding in there, striving for cool. I propose that to truly be different, you must first abolish the concept of "cool," because really, that's all that's holding everyone back from becoming what they want: they're afraid it won't be cool enough for their peers.
Define cool however you want. It could be crust punk and dreadlocks, it could be power suits and couture handbags, it could be serving fried catfish at a Christian Mission House, it could be dried flowers and old oiled leather. Murder the concept cool, cement and bag it, because you don't need it, and it's holding you back.
At least I think you don't. I could be wrong.
Now, Bourbon Street? That's not cool. I know, I know, I said murder the concept of cool and don't judge and be yourself and all that business, but seriously, fuck that succession of city blocks. Amateurs, the lot of them, puking and pissing and crying all over themselves. One girl: riding a mechanical bull with a short skirt and an open crotch, giggling uncomfortably, embarrassed at getting mad at the operator, who gyrated the bull and pimped out her box for the bar, grinning like a pedophile at the playground.
Bobbay yelled at that guy for nonconsensual eye-rape of a girl too scared and stupid to stand up for herself. I have never been prouder of a friend.
And so, the Professional Drinkers Association was born: consisting of Us, passing drunks their good, solid reputation back, with a handshake and a guffaw, not as slutty bullshit Tinkerbells oblivious to action, but as sloppy, poetic fighters and dreamers and champions of hilarity and conversational soul.
Welcome to New Orleans.
...
As we eased into New Orleans on Sunday afternoon, once again, Muffy took it upon herself to play that song again on speakers, for the train to hear. This time, however, all of the patrons that we'd befriended over the past several hours sang along with us.
There was this old Irish woman whose son lived in Kankakee, IL, and got all excited when Willie dropped the town name in the song. A gentleman from Memphis kept on singing out, "Good morning, America, how are ya?" on repeat, laughing in embarrassment, but playing along anyway. Others, too, whose names and life situations I completely forget.
It was like living in the jaunty, annoyingly elevated and rosy minds of Rodgers and Hammerstein. Secretly, I loved it, and in my head, a motley crew of strangers harvested complex vocal harmonies and shared rhythmic dance sequences with the steel rails of the train, and singers dropped their personal lines with smiling, coaxing asides to scowling passengers who eventually realized that they needed to lighten up and live, dammit, and in the end succumb to the raw power of Willie Nelson and his proverbial back-up singers.
Jesus, I don't even know if that made sense.
We stepped onto the platform, twenty minutes after the song was over, and people were still humming the tune, singing with each other.
In the end, though, I think everyone was just really excited to get off the goddamn train.
Immediately the five of us snagged a cab and headed straight to a show at the Dragon's Den, packs and all, just so we could watch a band from Indiana that we see all the frakking time in Chicago.
On our way to the show, our cab dragged behind a short man in a vest and fedora riding a doubledecker lamplighter bicycle and balancing a live rooster on its high horse handlebars.
The Dragon's Den is on the border of the French Quarter and Bywater, littered with those heroin chic little crust punk fuckers.
You know the type. The ones who are trying so hard to express their individuality through fashion, and in the end just all look like a clan of dirty little homeless people, with torn clothing and too much eyeliner. The punk-punched leftovers of last night's party...why do they try so hard to be each other? Individuality should be effortless.
Just as an aside, to the naysaying elitists: the harder you try to be different, the more of yourself you will lose. You are conforming to the movement of non-conformity, and there's already tens of thousands hiding in there, striving for cool. I propose that to truly be different, you must first abolish the concept of "cool," because really, that's all that's holding everyone back from becoming what they want: they're afraid it won't be cool enough for their peers.
Define cool however you want. It could be crust punk and dreadlocks, it could be power suits and couture handbags, it could be serving fried catfish at a Christian Mission House, it could be dried flowers and old oiled leather. Murder the concept cool, cement and bag it, because you don't need it, and it's holding you back.
At least I think you don't. I could be wrong.
Now, Bourbon Street? That's not cool. I know, I know, I said murder the concept of cool and don't judge and be yourself and all that business, but seriously, fuck that succession of city blocks. Amateurs, the lot of them, puking and pissing and crying all over themselves. One girl: riding a mechanical bull with a short skirt and an open crotch, giggling uncomfortably, embarrassed at getting mad at the operator, who gyrated the bull and pimped out her box for the bar, grinning like a pedophile at the playground.
Bobbay yelled at that guy for nonconsensual eye-rape of a girl too scared and stupid to stand up for herself. I have never been prouder of a friend.
And so, the Professional Drinkers Association was born: consisting of Us, passing drunks their good, solid reputation back, with a handshake and a guffaw, not as slutty bullshit Tinkerbells oblivious to action, but as sloppy, poetic fighters and dreamers and champions of hilarity and conversational soul.
Welcome to New Orleans.
...
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The City of New Orleans: Deborah in a Tizzy
Day One.
On the train they call The City of New Orleans, one of the Amtrak employees threatened to call the Amtrak police on us within five minutes. Deborah. That's her name. Obviously, Miss Deborah was having a real honk of a day (Is that a phrase? That should be a phrase), and she wanted to take it out on the five girls who smuggled liquor onto the train. She didn't know we smuggled liquor, though, and she didn't know that a member of our party was carrying pot, and she didn't know that we were going to be harassing all of the Amtrak employees about the frequency of train stops where some of us could take smoke breaks, or that we were going to hang out in the lounge car being loud for the duration of the twenty hour trip.
But Deborah was upset with us because we settled into some seats that were "Reserved for parties ofthree two or more" according to the piece of flimsy chicken-scratched paper tacked up above the chairs, and Muffy whipped out a marker to made necessary adjustments, so the sign read, "Reserved for parties of three two or more Us."
So Deborah got her inner-workings all bunchy and flipped out on us for destroying Amtrak property.
Then, just to be more obnoxious, the second our train starting chugging out of Union Station on Saturday night, Muffy cranked up her Ipod speakers and we all sang along to Willie Nelson, because I mean, come on, when you're on the train they call The City of New Orleans, it's like a rule or something.
Muffy got it into her head that if you shook up a little cup of half-and-half long enough, eventually you'd get butter. Silly Muffy. All you're gonna get is gross warm milk. But Muffy wanted butter, and Bobbay and I sat in the lounge car, taking it upon ourselves to see the butter process through after she passed out. We'd finished all of the alcohol, so really, what was the point of her staying up anyway? Other than making butter?
So I'm just hanging out, shaking the cream, churning the butter, and I turn to Bobbay. "Seriously. Muffy's all, 'I want butter.' And then she makes us do all the work."
"She's lazy," Bobbay shrugs.
"I know. What kind of buttermaker is she?"
"She's...a half-assed buttermaker."
I slam the creamer down on the table. "She is a half-assed buttermaker."
And then, just to prove the exchange existed, Bobbay and I recorded ourselves overacting that dialogue about forty times over the next three hours before heading back to our seats, attempting sleep.
...
On another note, I would like to apologize to anyone I drunkenly emailed any time over this past week.
...
On the train they call The City of New Orleans, one of the Amtrak employees threatened to call the Amtrak police on us within five minutes. Deborah. That's her name. Obviously, Miss Deborah was having a real honk of a day (Is that a phrase? That should be a phrase), and she wanted to take it out on the five girls who smuggled liquor onto the train. She didn't know we smuggled liquor, though, and she didn't know that a member of our party was carrying pot, and she didn't know that we were going to be harassing all of the Amtrak employees about the frequency of train stops where some of us could take smoke breaks, or that we were going to hang out in the lounge car being loud for the duration of the twenty hour trip.
But Deborah was upset with us because we settled into some seats that were "Reserved for parties of
So Deborah got her inner-workings all bunchy and flipped out on us for destroying Amtrak property.
Then, just to be more obnoxious, the second our train starting chugging out of Union Station on Saturday night, Muffy cranked up her Ipod speakers and we all sang along to Willie Nelson, because I mean, come on, when you're on the train they call The City of New Orleans, it's like a rule or something.
Muffy got it into her head that if you shook up a little cup of half-and-half long enough, eventually you'd get butter. Silly Muffy. All you're gonna get is gross warm milk. But Muffy wanted butter, and Bobbay and I sat in the lounge car, taking it upon ourselves to see the butter process through after she passed out. We'd finished all of the alcohol, so really, what was the point of her staying up anyway? Other than making butter?
So I'm just hanging out, shaking the cream, churning the butter, and I turn to Bobbay. "Seriously. Muffy's all, 'I want butter.' And then she makes us do all the work."
"She's lazy," Bobbay shrugs.
"I know. What kind of buttermaker is she?"
"She's...a half-assed buttermaker."
I slam the creamer down on the table. "She is a half-assed buttermaker."
And then, just to prove the exchange existed, Bobbay and I recorded ourselves overacting that dialogue about forty times over the next three hours before heading back to our seats, attempting sleep.
...
On another note, I would like to apologize to anyone I drunkenly emailed any time over this past week.
...
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Nawlins Can't Handle My Shit
Fucking Nawlins can't handle my shit.
Do not get me wrong, this town is incredible, but I'm a high-class alcoholic over here. I have goddamn standards. This place is full of amateurs.
Bourbon street is bullshit. I am not an elitist. Ya'll are just assholes. <
You know what's way better is when you find a corner market and get a coupla silos and sit on a street corner. That's some classy business right there. Fucking crackheads settled down next to us for awhile. Serious crackheads, man, these guys weren't fucking around.
By the way, I don't know if you guys know Tom Turner, but the man sells Lucky Dog hot dogs like an auctioneer and caught a forty pound catfish yesterday. He fixed his ol' landladay's roof in return for rent. We met him in front of Rolland's Quik Mart (Amber just corrected me, because it's Rouses Quik Mart. Because yeah, I admit, I just totally made up a name)at ten pm, just hanging out in front with a tackle box and a shit eating grin. Fucking love that guy.
So I was hungover as fuck this morning. Afternoon. Whatever. And then Muffy and Bobbay returned to the Ambassador after wandering around with their goddamn skirts and found me sleeping on the cot with the room door wide open, because they are retarded. What if someone wanted to rape me, you cocksmokers?
Bobbay says, "Yeah. Sor."
...
Do not get me wrong, this town is incredible, but I'm a high-class alcoholic over here. I have goddamn standards. This place is full of amateurs.
Bourbon street is bullshit. I am not an elitist. Ya'll are just assholes. <
You know what's way better is when you find a corner market and get a coupla silos and sit on a street corner. That's some classy business right there. Fucking crackheads settled down next to us for awhile. Serious crackheads, man, these guys weren't fucking around.
By the way, I don't know if you guys know Tom Turner, but the man sells Lucky Dog hot dogs like an auctioneer and caught a forty pound catfish yesterday. He fixed his ol' landladay's roof in return for rent. We met him in front of Rolland's Quik Mart (Amber just corrected me, because it's Rouses Quik Mart. Because yeah, I admit, I just totally made up a name)at ten pm, just hanging out in front with a tackle box and a shit eating grin. Fucking love that guy.
So I was hungover as fuck this morning. Afternoon. Whatever. And then Muffy and Bobbay returned to the Ambassador after wandering around with their goddamn skirts and found me sleeping on the cot with the room door wide open, because they are retarded. What if someone wanted to rape me, you cocksmokers?
Bobbay says, "Yeah. Sor."
...
Sunday, March 22, 2009
We Need More Beer.
If anyone lives in Carbondale, our train will be there at 1:21 AM. Please drop off one case of PBR...hold on...a fifth of Jager, and some peppermint schnapps to the Carbondale Amtrak station. Because we are out of liquor.
We have a five minute window. You must be there between 1:21 and 1:26 AM.
Thank you for your time.
You will be paid back in cash money, karma and possible blow jobs, but probably not from Bobbay. Or Margaret. Or Amber. Or me, really. Okay, so Muffy might suck you off.
...
We have a five minute window. You must be there between 1:21 and 1:26 AM.
Thank you for your time.
You will be paid back in cash money, karma and possible blow jobs, but probably not from Bobbay. Or Margaret. Or Amber. Or me, really. Okay, so Muffy might suck you off.
...
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