(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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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…
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