A Very Special Car Show

Suggested Soundtrack: "The Kids" by MGMT

Lots happening, lots happening, and in such rapid succession that I'm having a tough time keeping up. Before I get into the serious shit, I'm gonna cover the fun stuff. Namely, this car show I went to last weekend.

If you know my friend Mike, who is the guy the got me to move to Dallas, you know that he is into custom cars. He has a tricked-out Passat station wagon that he takes to car shows and wins tall trophies with. Well, last weekend there was a car show in Dallas that Mike was not showing in, but that he wanted to check out anyway. I decided to go and bring my camera, since any car show I've been to is chock full of weirdos and idiots, as well as the occasional cool car.

Little did I know that I was walking into the strangest car show ever conceived.

Our first indication that something was different was during the walk from the parking lot into the actual convention center where the show was being held. Car show people look a certain way. The people we were seeing did not look like car show people. There were a lot of kids running around in karate outfits. There were grown men in karate outfits. The real freaky thing was all of the over-tanned ultra-buff people. Like, really buff. It was when we got to the ticket counter that we realized that we were getting into a lot more than just a car show.

There were easels set up with posters on them. The first one we saw said that at 2:30pm, we could meet this guy:


Holy shit, right? This guy is IN THE BUILDING. The poster had ben wrapped in saran wrap for whatever reason, possibly to protect it from staining should some sweaty fanboy try and skip the autograph line and just decide to rub on the poster.

So this was a car show/bodybuilding competition? Okey dokey. Odd, but I could handle that. But this was not all. Behind this poster was another:


Wow. Really? So this is a car show/bodybuilding competition/arm wrestling tournament. Aha. Happens all the time. Wait, wait a minute...


It was at this point I realized where I must be: none other than the highly anticipated IFB Europa Super Show. (http://www.supershowexpo.com/). This was a car show/bodybuilding competition/arm wrestling tournament/weight lifting lift-off/mixed-martial-arts exhibition/yo-yo championship!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was very happy that I had brought my camera.

Tickets were purchased, armbands were put on, and we were in!


Right away, I saw human beings that were so unnatural, so freaky, that I knew I had to somehow photograph them. Problem was, their freakiness was usually that they were extremely buff. HUGE. There were women walking around that could easily punch my head off. OFF. So I knew I had to be sneaky. My camera has a little red light that turns on when I am filming.


...see the light there under my finger?

So pointing the camera at someone, they would know they were being filmed, and then, noticing that I was wearing my sunglasses indoors and laughing at them, they might get mad and, I don't know, stand on my feet and pull my head off. So I needed a plan. I came up with the plan pretty quickly:


Ta-da!!

First, I needed to do a lap with Mike to look at cars. The freaks would have to be photographed as we casually took in the custom vehicles, which were distributed evenly throughout the convention hall.

I took a picture of some car, mostly to make it look like I was an auto freak.


Shiny!

At this point, we were near the weightlifters. So while Mike and our other friend Todd were looking at lifted cars on 20s, I popped over and got as close as I could to the powerlifters. These guys were lifting the equivalent of a Volkswagon Beetle and managing to not shit themselves at the same time.


It was kinda neat, I guess. I really liked the fact that there was a whole sub-competition involving mentally challenged lifters. This is not a joke. I don't mean to be an ass here. I am a sarcastic ass a lot of the time, but this was really quite cool. There were about a dozen kids in their late teens to early twenties that had down syndrome that were lifting huge amounts of weight. It was touching and a bit inspiring as well. Not that I want to be able to dead-lift two tons of metal, but hell, they were enjoying themselves and you can't make fun of that. I decided to move on and find some people I could comment safely on.

This took us back to the cars.


Someone decided to go the creepy route and have a mannequin dressed like Elvis parked next to their car. People with custom cars will frequently have some sort of thing in the vicinity of their car to "set it off," usually a stuffed animal behind the steering wheel, or pictures of the car before it was restored, but this was just bizarre.

Now we were over by the arm wresting.


It was pretty funny. There were different classes, I guess based on the size of your wrestlin' arm. Each match was super quick, and it was all or nothing. I figured they would be best of two out of three, but no. It was "Ready? Go!" and then one guy would utterly crush the other, and then after some polite applause, it was on to the next two. You'd see two big ol' boys in Nascar shirts followed by two thin pimply guys wearing Metallica shirts. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it. The bitch of it was that there was never any struggle. One guy always got quickly decimated, no matter how strong or weak they both looked. I stuck around for some time, hoping to see some miracle bout where the two contestants were so closely matched that their grunts filled the room and made passers-by stop and crane their necks to see what the fuss was about, finally resulting in hand-to-hand pressure that made their fingernails burst off and go ricocheting around the room as spectators and judges alike dove for cover, ending when one man's wrist finally snapped off and the winner slammed the armless hand down on the table and the loser sprayed the front row with blood from his stump, screaming like a girl.

No such luck. I was moving on.

Next up, I saw the America-mobile.


This looked like the car that George W. Bush would, on the final day of his presidency, drive around on the lawn of the White House, doing doughnuts and tearing up the grass while drunk on Coors Light. Shouting "WHOOOOOOO HOOOOOO!" out of the window as country music poured out of the speakers. I shed a patriotic tear and moved on.

Now we were near the flexing competition. I couldn't get close enough to get any good pictures, but you know the drill: impossibly ripped muscle-men flexing on stage as Right Said Fred's "I'm too sexy" plays over the PA. The good stuff was happening on the floor of the show.

First off, the fake tan factor was off the charts here. Later, looking at the official website I realized why:

Spray-on tan?!! Sign me up!!

At the time, I was simply amazed at the orange-ness of these bodybuilders. I got a few shots of some of the crazier people. I tailed this woman for a minute. Look at the shoulders on this lady:


The females were way more interesting. The males were either built like He-Man with the tiny waist and huge chest, or of the old school "fat strong guy" type:


This guy was in good spirits and seemed happy enough, but he reminded me of Bob from "Fight Club." Bob had bitch tits, remember?


This Bob wasn't there quite yet, but he was one blown knee from a huge BMI and a C cup.

Then, I saw something that reminded me why I brought my camera in the first place: Airbrushed hoods. Forget airbrushed tans, this is gold! More commonly seen on the tailgate of the Mexican-American pickup truck and featuring men in sombreros and wolves howling at the moon, the car-show airbrushed hood tells a story about the car or its owner or both, and is usually so fucking awful as to be hilarious. Case in point: Money Hungry.


I LOVED this car. So silly that I almost pissed myself laughing, but scary in that I knew if the owner had seen me he would have stabbed me or broken my nose with brass knuckles. As it was, he was off taking a dump or something, so I could laugh at his car with no fear of retribution, like the coward I am. Here's a close up of that hood.


Note the girl on the left side has visible nipple, and is moaning in pleasure while thinking of $$$$$. What you could not see in this picture is that the main girl in the middle is standing on two alligators (she is holding two chains, which are around their necks). The alligators themselves are eating stacks of hundred dollar bills. This is not made up. I just wish I was I the room when the car's owner told the artist exactly what he wanted on the hood. Holy shit, I'd give a testicle to be there.

The Martial Arts Competition was nothing to write home about, and the pictures I got looked more like foreplay than fighting, so I left them out.

Next up, the Yo-yo contest. There was nothing going on on stage, but as soon as the contestants saw my camera they started showboating. It was cool. Before they started blowing my mind with their mad skills, I got a quick shot of one of the kids who was rocking a unique hairstyle:


It took me a second, but then, a voice in my head said, "Use the force, Nik." AHA!!!!


This was an example of Jedi hair!!

Then, an Asian kid begun spinning TWO yo-yo's like a raver spinning glow sticks. The picture is a bit blurry, but it is testimony of the DIZZYING SPEED with which this guy was twirling his yos.


Not to be outdone, this guy went wild and did some single-yo tricks, keeping things tight and playing it close to the chest, so to speak.


It took me a second before I recognized him. This was Shannon Hoon, the supposedly deceased singer from the hit band Blind Melon!!!!


Allegedly, he died of a heroin overdose, but I know now that it was all a ruse and that he chose the path less traveled, and decided to go Pro Yo Yo.

Our time at the show was coming to an end. But there was still one more treat in store for us.

On our way out, that's when I saw her: The Lady in Red. For fear of my life, I could not get too close to this rare creature. I tiptoed as close as I dared and got a picture as she signed up for some Canadian HGH mailing thing. If she knew my intent, her steroid-induced rage could cause her to tear me apart.


She was spectacular, but mysterious. Gentle, yet strong. A man, yet somehow a woman. Strange and new, yet familiar. Then it hit me: "You think anybody thinks I'm a failure because I go home to Starla at night?"


This was Starla, in the flesh, and scary as hell. I knew if I made her too uncomfortable, I'd be asking for a roundhouse to the face.


It was time to go.

Until next time...

Random Roomie Update

Suggested Soundtrack: "Oh Shit" by Pharcyde



This is just a quick update.

Most of you will remember my old Roomie, Jason from the party house. Here we are, on a typical afternoon:


...that's Jason on the right.

Well, after I moved to Dallas, Nick (Roomie 3) moved to Minneapolis, so Jason decided to keep us all in the same time zone by moving back home to Omaha.

Another notable fact about Jason was that of the three Roomies, Jason had the only fully functional and presentable automobile, the black GMC Yukon, or Tahoe, or whatever. Big, black SUV. It was awesome. It fit 8 people, and was perfect for after-hours impromptu TJ trips.

Well, I talked to Jason today, and he had an incident.

Omaha is located in a part of the country known as the "Bible Belt" which, not coincidentally, is also the exact same part of the country known as "Tornado Alley." Why devout Christians chose to live in an area that is frequently hit by deadly pointy clouds is anyone's guess. Maybe the tornadoes inspire faith, who knows? All I know is that very recently, Jason woke up and said, "Oh, shit."


According to Jason, "The back window got blown out and the roof of the truck is shaped like a hot dog bun."

I guess it could be worse?

Yeah, it could be worse:


...that's his neighbor's truck.

That's all I have to say. Jason reads my blog, so if you have any well-wishing to do, or if you want to laugh at his misfortune, feel free to post a comment so he can read it.

Until next time...

Bought Read Watched 4

Suggested Soundtrack: "Don't you forget about me" by Simple Minds

JULY:

Books bought:

Jernigan by David Gates

Anthem by Ayn Rand

The Road by Cormac McCarthy


DVDs Bought:

None

Books Read:

The Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck by Don Rosa

Jernigan by David Gates


Movies Watched:

The Whale Rider

Wall-E

Hellboy II: The Golden Army

The Dark Knight

The Savages

American Teen

Big movie month, not a lot of reading got done, sadly.

The first thing I read was The Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck by Don Rosa. All I know about Scrooge McDuck I learned from watching DuckTales. I had no idea that he was not meant to be a recurring character, that he was usually an incorrigible asshole, and that he had a huge following in Europe. The original Scrooge artist was a guy named Carl Barks. He invented Scrooge McDuck for one Donald Duck story, but Scrooge was so popular he ended up drawing his adventures in comic books for decades. In the states, Disney comics never really blew up, but in Europe, this guy Barks and his duck comics were a huge hit. So much so that when Barks died, it made national news in some European countries. Don Rosa, the man who took Barks’ place drawing Donald and Scrooge and Huey, Dewey and Louie, is such a fan of Barks that he decided to create a backstory for Scrooge using old Barks comics as research. He went through thousands of Barks comics and took every little tidbit of information he could and used it in this twelve chapter graphic novel that details Scrooge’s poor roots and rise to riches. It’s an awesome story full of historical detail and humor and ups and downs. After each chapter, Rosa writes about all the insane details he used from Barks stories to put the chapter together. It’s a glimpse into what makes the story even more special, although the story doesn’t need any help to kick ass on its own.

Jernigan, by David Gates features what is known in the literary world as an anti-hero. Peter Jernigan is a witty drunk asshole, a sublime fuckup of a man who narrates a novel about a time in his life that took him to the edge, and over. The writing is fantastic, and Jernigan is someone you’d love to know most of the time, and deny knowledge of the rest of the time. Early on, he ends up having sex with the mother of his son’s girlfriend, while his son and her daughter are in the next room, doing the same thing. Here, because it is fantastic and because I am bored, I present to you a couple of paragraphs from Jernigan that describe what happens the morning after:

“Martha Peretsky was asleep, or pretending to be asleep, face down. Shoulders swelling and subsiding. I got out of bed, found the jockey shorts where they’d ended up – I remembered now her taking them down and my not caring what became of them – and crept to the door. Then I remembered the girl, Clarissa, and went back and put on trousers. Glanced at stomach. Put on shirt.
In the hallway I met Danny, in just his jockey shorts, coming out of the bathroom. He gave me a thumbs-up, and a grin I would never have given my father, no matter how much of an old bohemian he was. But what was the point of trying to be on your dignity when you were getting up from doing the same thing he was getting up from doing? I decided fuck it, and gave him the thumbs-up back, the canny old veteran who could still come off the bench and move the runner along with the perfect bunt.”

This stuff makes me laugh out loud, and there’s enough funny in this book to balance out the shitty feeling I got when I read it for too long of a stretch. Too much of it seems too familiar with this man who can’t control his urges even though his life is turning to shit. If you like Catcher in the Rye, you’ll find a lot of similarities between the voices of Holden Caulfield and Peter Jernigan.

As for movies, first I got around to watching a DVD I bought months ago. The Whale Rider was a critical darling when it came out and I never saw it. I’m pissed now that I waited as long as I did. It’s the story of a girl whose twin brother died at birth. He was to be the leader of their Maori tribe. His death left the tribe without a leader. The movie shows what life is like for her (difficult), what kind of existence a leaderless people have (shitty, mostly), and how all that is overcome (in an awesome and heartbreaking way). The visuals of New Zealand made me ask myself, “Why have I not been there?” See this movie, then call me and let me know when you wanna go to New Zealand.

What can I say about Wall-E other than go see it? This movie is incredible. The love story of two robots broke my heart in certain places. I think it was just the way that EVE says Wall-E’s name when she’s frustrated with him…”Wwwwaaaaallllllleeeeeee!”

Hellboy II: The Golden Army was good fun, especially for me, the comic book nerd. It’s worth watching even if you know nothing about the comic just because of the richness of the world that is created in the movie. The monster market is fantastic, and watching Hellboy and Abe the merman get drunk and sing Barry Manilow is worth the price of admission alone. Plus, for fans of slapstick humor, it doesn’t get much better than an old lady getting punched so hard she flies offscreen.

The Dark Knight is another movie I’m assuming you’ve seen. If not, skip this paragraph. Holy shit!! I was lucky enough to catch an IMAX sneak preview of this the Tuesday before it came out. There was no point to that last sentence except to brag. This movie is bad ass. The Joker making the pencil disappear: genius. The Joker in general: mad genius. This movie was near-perfect. Really, the only thing that got to me was the Batman voice. I know it’s to protect his identity, but it grated after a while. I mean, I love the new “realistic” feel these movies have, but the bat-voice is odd enough that it makes me notice that people are talking to a man in a bat suit and not really noting the silliness of the whole deal. But the other 99.9% of the movie is, as I said before, perfect. I saw it first!!!

A friend of mine gave me the DVD for The Savages, a black comedy with Laura Linney and Philip Seymour Hoffman. It is about a brother and sister who have to care for their elderly father who is losing his mind and control of his bodily functions. The sad is so sad, and the funny so funny, that it is hard to classify this movie. I’ll just classify it as great.

And sneaking in just under the wire we have American Teen, a documentary that is just showing up in theatres that you should go and see right away. The filmmaker followed a bunch of seniors at a Midwest high school around for a year and picked the four best stories to feature. The movie may seem to be trying to show that al kids fit into groups, but that is not the case. By focusing on the four she focuses on, the director shows us what it is like to be one of the extremes. The Queen Bee, The Sports Hero, The Nerd, and The Outsider. These four may fit the descriptions neatly, but that doesn’t mean they like where they are or are eager to stay there. All four have ups and downs and all four defy their descriptions in some way or another. If nothing else, it will give you that “Thank goodness that’s over with” feeling. In high school, only high school matters, and it’s neat to go back to that for just a couple of hours just so you can know that really, it didn’t matter all that much in the long run. These kids don’t know that yet, and it’s awesome and scary to watch. GO SEE THIS MOVIE.

Until next time…

Wasted in The Big Easy

Suggested Soundtrack: “Wasted” by South



(Note on the video: the footage is some stuff I shot from the lobby of the hotel I stayed at. The lobby was on the 11th floor and looked out over the Mississippi river. Sunday, in a stupor, I was there doing some editing and reading when a hell of a storm rolled in with lightning and everything. After trying and mostly failing to get some lightning on video, I set my camera on the ledge and let it run. The video above is sped up, except when the lightning hits. It also repeats itself twice over the course of the song I picked, a song I picked because it matches the post and not the footage. But what the hell.)

Last weekend took a trip to New Orleans.

I got there on a Southwest flight that took about an hour and a half. As usual, I enjoyed cocktails during the flight. Also, I always have beers while I wait for my plane to start boarding. The new thing was that I got incredibly high in the parking garage of Love Field, from a spliff I rolled during lunch at work. Long story short, I’m feeling pretty good as we hit our cruising altitude of 15,000 feet or whatever. I don’t know the precise altitude, or the pilot’s name, or any of that shit because, as always, I wear my iPod the entire time, taking one earbud out only when it is time to order another drink. Music is all I hear, except when my ears go through the process of popping.

So you’re with me now, you understand my altered state of mind and my inability to hear anything but music?

Well, the flight is well underway and the nice lady next to me taps on my arm and when I look at her she looks and points at the male flight attendant who is standing in the aisle. I saw him when I got on the plane; like most male flight attendants, he was obviously gay, and loving it. I look at this guy, and with Bill Withers singing "Lovely Day" into my head, this guy mouths a word at me. The word is “penis.” He has his eyebrows raised real high when he says it. What the fuck? It takes me a moment to process it: “Penis.” I’m sure my face was a fright. Did I set off his Gaydar? Does he think my name is Penis (“It’s Richard, thanks”)? WHY DID THIS MAN ASK ME PENIS?! He says it again, eyebrows way up, mouthing the word, “Penis?” Then he holds a tiny blue bag up and shakes it a little. Oh.

“No thanks,” I say, probably too loud on account of my iPod.

No peanuts for me.

* * *

I hit the ground running, headed to a strip club for a bit (I have a friend who works there), and proceeded to get more shitfaced. A man who all the strippers seemed to like a lot came in, sat down next to me, and struck up conversation. Apparently, he had had a life changing event (multiple operations, coma) two years’ previous, and had decided late in life to start partying. Since I had been kind enough to listen to his story, he whipped out a wad of cash as thick as my wrist and bought me a shot and a lapdance. Cool. I’m not a huge fan of strip clubs because in my opinion it is a waste of money. If I want to pay too much for drinks and look at hot chicks I can go to Hooters, where at least I get fed. But a free lapdance, I’ll take. Upon my return, he got me some more to drink, and some more. By this time, I had 6 missed calls from my buddy Mike, who was in town on business. He was at a concert of some kind and I had told him I would meet him. It took a lot of effort to leave the rich Plutocrat who was buying me bourbon and tits, but leave I did.

I stopped briefly on Bourbon Street to see some friends that were barhopping. I was so fucking drunk that I barely remember any of this, and for that I am a bit ashamed. I was so plowed that I have no recollection whatsoever of how I got to the…

Next stop: some bar. It had a stage. And a man called Kermit Ruffins was tearing it up.


I learned later that he is a bit of a New Orleans celebrity. At the time, I knew nothing except that his jazz made me dance. I suavely pulled a cute girl from the audience and twirled her here and there, impressing her with my fancy footwork. Just kidding, I drunkenly made eye contact with her, waved her over, then grabbed her and spun her all around like a rag doll. She liked this enough to insist that we hang out the following night. She was probably fucked up, too.

After this, we rolled up Bourbon Street until who knows when.

Mike went back to his Rain Man suite at the Westin, and I went to my friend’s house. I was awake until 10am, when Mike called me to tell me he was headed to work and that he hoped my night went well. Well, my night was still going.

After waking up sometime in the late afternoon, I had a little lunch, walked around town for a while, and then headed to the hotel. Mike was going to dinner, and told me to come with. I was really on the fence about it, but Mike assured me that his friends who live in NOLA said it was the best place in town. I hauled my stinking sweaty ass into the shower and hosed off to the best of my ability. The problem is that after a bender like the one I had the previous evening, it takes DAYS for all the terrible shit I consumed to work its way out of my body. So even after a thorough scrubbing, shampooing, deodorizing and cologne-ing, I was still sweating that awful mix of booze, smoke and B.O. that gives the French Quarter its distinctive smell. For the time being though, I was mostly sober, somewhat awake, and dressed in clothing that had yet to absorb any foul odors. I was, in a word, ready.

What followed was one of the best meals I have ever had in my life. The place is called Jacques-Imo’s, and if you ever go to New Orleans, you must eat there. If you don’t, I’ll throw a box of kittens out of a moving car. Yes, it is kitten-killing good. The four of us started with Alligator Cheesecake and also some Rabbit Tenderloin. Both were mind-blowingly delicious. Both were sitting in sauces that complimented the main event perfectly. We used some cornbread to sop up what sauce was left after the apps were demolished. Next came the main dishes. We shared everything. I had a Carpetbagger Steak (filet, cooked medium-rare [of course!], topped with caramelized onions, melted bleu cheese, and some rich and yummy sauce), and it was better than any steak had any right to be. Mike had Duck, the lightest dish of the evening, but still one of the tastiest. The female at the table had the Eggplant Jacques-Imo, which was stuffed with goodness and topped with a sauce that could only have been made with tears of joy shed by Angels. The final dish was a stuffed pork chop. Stuffed with ground beef and veggies. It was the size of a whole cooked chicken, and tasted better than any chicken ever has, or ever will. The side dishes were also (predictably) so wonderful that by the time the server came to take the plates away, absolutely nothing was left. I shit you not, they could have put those goddamn plates back under the heat lamp and no one would have known the difference. This meal was so good I was physically aroused. Have you ever gotten a boner from food? It certainly raises questions for the person with the woody. How does one satisfy the culinary erection? I decided that, just like my strip club stiffie from the night before, there was really nothing to be done.

Except, of course, drink.

We went to a bar, I forget the name now, but when I texted my strip club friend to meet me there I got this reply: “Yeah. Chick got her throat slit there last summer. On my way to work for a min. Call u in a bit.” Wow. So I’ve got the throat-slitting thing to think about now, and after asking our local friends about it I found that it was completely true, totally random (he didn’t know her at all), and still (understandably) a touchy subject in the bar. Fucking terrible right? You go out for a drink at the local and some psycho comes in and slits your throat? It’s enough to make a person stay home with the deadbolt locked and the shutters closed. After dwelling on this for a minute or two, I realized that the night would go to shit if I didn’t take immediate action.

I decided to watch a few people play Uno.

“Who’s the underdog?” I asked. “I need someone to root for.”

The two guys pointed to the lone female.

“Make it happen,” I told her.

They played on for a bit, and one of the guys won. They asked me to get in on the next hand. I obliged.

“You know,” I said once the game was underway, “I love this town. I love that people will just invite you to play in their Uno game at a bar.”

“Where you from?” said the shorter of the two guys.

“Dallas, but…” I started.

“You’re really from San Diego!” said the taller guy.

“Holy, shit, man, how the hell did you know that?” I asked.

So he jogged my memory: On my last trip out to New Orleans, I was wandering drunk down Bourbon Street and had stopped and talked to two guys about their bicycles. They had some cool single-speed bikes, one of which was similar to the bike I used to ride everywhere. I must have told them where I was from and where I live now. The tall guy was one of those bikers. Amazing that this dude remembered me.

“New Orleans is a small town, man,” was how he explained it. Fair enough.

That night faded into another blur.


Bars on and off Bourbon. At some point I realized I was at a casino, at a craps table, and I was winning. I’m not sure how far ahead I was, or how much I spent to get there. I really hate gambling, so when I came to, I grabbed my shit and left.

Before we go any further, I’ll take a quick second to talk about the fact that this was the second time in as many nights that I had done things that I don’t normally do. I don’t typically frequent casinos or patronize strip clubs. The town was working its magic on me, and it seemed like that magic was going to get me in trouble. Well, it seemed like that after the fact anyway. At the time, I was just so fucking worn out that none of this occurred to me. Not one part of me said, “Nik, you’re gonna do something stupid if you keep this up.” Which leads me to Sunday.

It didn’t start off too bad. A delicious breakfast with Mike and our local friends from the night before. Margarita to take the edge off, a big one. Then Mike was off to work, our friends off to home depot, and there I was again: alone in a strange town, nursing a buzz on a hot day with infinite possibilities. I did some sightseeing, stopping for street beer when I needed it. The houses in NOLA are crazy. A lot of them still have slave quarters in back. They are the size of closets, but apparently they get rented out these days. Odd.


The town has tons of beautiful graffiti, too.


I went by Jackson Square, which was also nice.


A parade went by, brass band up front, costumed people in back.


Then something occurred to me. Somewhere in this town was a statue of a literary hero of mine: Ignatius J Reilly. Anyone who has read the fabulous book A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole will know of whom I speak. If you haven’t read Dunces you need to. It is a comic masterpiece and the story of its publication is almost as amazing as the book itself. At any rate, the statue was somewhere in the city, I had heard. I place a call to a friend in Dallas, who googled it for me and gave me the name of a hotel. After stopping for a beer in a similarly named hotel that did not have the statue (but I looked anyway), a helpful hotel official told me where I needed to be. Two blocks down the road, I found him.



Mission accomplished.

I needed to sweat some of the terrible shit out my system. I headed to the rooftop pool for a bit, but then a huge storm rolled in and I went down to the lobby to read and edit video of my San Diego-Dallas drive from early June (almost done, and then I’ll post it). Mike got back from work, we took turns showering and then went down to the lobby to drink and wait for our local friends to call. We were meeting for dinner at a place I had gone to the last time called the Port of Call. It has the best burgers. Half-pounders that come with a baked potato to boot.


They also have a drink called a Monsoon that comes in a big plastic cup and costs nine bucks. Believe me, you get your money’s worth. I had two.

After that, it was off to some bar where I took down at least four more beers before parting ways with the group and (foolishly) heading down to the strip club to see my friend. Mike walked with me most of the way, and managed to delay the inevitable by getting me to duck into a couple of bars on the way. The street in front of one place was covered in napkins. What a bunch of filthy animals, I thought. Stumbling drunk with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of my mouth, I fit right in.

Then, we were there. Mike left me at the door, headed back to the hotel like a smart man. Since I knew one of the dancers well, and a couple more through her, I was well taken care of. Drinks weren’t ten bucks a pop, they were three. So I drank. Kept drinking. Traded a hundo for ones. Made it rain to the extent that I could. Making friends like I do, I had people there to talk to that weren’t working. At one point, one of the dancers I knew came up to me. She had a bunch of pills in her hand. “Want some?” she asked. I was completely plowed, and remember this with only the haziest of memories. “Yes,” I said without hesitation. She gave me four. If I had any common sense left at that point I would have asked what the hell it was I was about to eat. I pride myself on the fact that while I’ve had my share of prescription drugs, I’ve never taken Ecstasy (big fucking deal, right?). Here I am, completely fortified and staring at four little white pills in my open hand. I hesitated for a split second, and the guy next to me asked, “What are those?” “I have no idea,” I said, “you want some?” He did. He grabbed two. Then, like the drunk moron I was, I threw the remaining two in my mouth and swallowed them down with a big gulp of Jack and coke. I had made the decision (unwisely) to take whatever the night threw at me. Then, a thought: What the fuck had I just swallowed? Was I in real trouble here? I sobered up slightly, as one does when one is driving tipsy and a cop is tailing the car and one realizes that one just might be Well And Truly Fucked. It was at this point that I understood what I had done, and the possible consequences flooded into my drunken skull. Shit. Depending on what it was that I swallowed, the night could a) end quickly, b) never end, c) turn into a Dali-esque nightmare of distorted vision and twisted thoughts, or d) become chock-full of heightened sensory perception that made me just wanna lovingly rub couch cushions and chew on the inside of my cheek. None of those sounded good at this point. Not only had I eaten the mystery pills, I had actually given some to the poor stupid motherfucker who was sitting next to me. As I looked on in horror, he popped his two pills into his mouth. Too late. He wasn’t even swallowing them with booze, the dumb bastard was CHEWING them.

“These are mints,” he said.

* * *

I got back to the room at 3:45am. In order to catch my flight out, I needed to be up at 4:30am and at the airport by six. The smart thing would have been to hop in the shower for an hour and sober up, and then hop a cab to the airport. Instead, I dialed the front desk.

“Front desk.”

“I need a wake up call at four-thirty. A M. Four-thirty-ay-em. Can you do this for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Well, that was a miserable failure. Came to at 7am, cussed a blue streak, called Southwest, got booked on the 9:45am flight (for a fee, a stupidity charge I’ll call it), and hopped in the shower.


Made it to the airport on time, called and let work know I’d be coming in two hours late and then napped my way to Dallas. Luckily for me, the computers were down at work, so no one was working. Tat gave me couple of hours to sit and stare at a blank screen and contemplate the stupidity of the weekend. Decided I would deal with it how I normally do: write it out, do a little self-flagellation, and compare it with some of the other stupid shit I’ve done in the past.

Sadly, this trip was way up there.

At least I got a couple of good stories out of it.

Until next time…