Busting balls at Tipitina's

Dawn's man Sam was all hepped up to see the Mother Truckers at Tip's the night before Mardi Gras (Lundi Gras). The band was good but the music was much too loud and the room entirely too smoky so Dawn and I left Sam inside and tripped outdoors to hang out on the picnic tables to talk and catch up.

An inebriated frat boy type stumbled onto our area and drunkenly slurred a question. I could tell it was a question by the way his voice went up at the end but in no way could I translate his garbled request. Drunk boy repeated himself.

Oooohhh, you want tickets to the show?
Yes.
The show has already begun so you can get in free now. Just go to that door and walk in, I say.
He is so excited. Free?
Yep.
Which door?
That one.
He walks off in that drunk spaghetti leg fashion that we've all done at some point of our drunken careers.
"You know that's the backstage door, right?" Dawn asked.
"Shit yeah, I know. I just wanted to see if he'd do it", I answer.

Dawn smokes her cigarette and I drink my beer as we watch Drunk Boy open the backstage door only to get pushed back and yelled at by the bouncer. The bouncer points toward the ticket window and entry door and shuts the door.

Drunk Boy apparently doesn't have enough energy to walk toward the ticket window and returns to us.

"They wouldn't let me in. I think I had the wrong door," he slurs.
"Hell no, son! They don't know who you are. Go to that door. Act like you own the joint and walk in. If you act as if you know where you're going, they'll let you through," I instruct him.
"Sssssshure, I can't wait to sssshhhee THE MOTHER TRUCKERS!!! I LOVE THEM, MAN!"
"I don't know . . . ." heard from Dawn.
He's off.

This time, he rips the door open so hard, it bounces off the outside wall, hits him in the back and sends him flying smack dab into the already aggravated bouncer. Dawn and I are laughing so hard we're crying but we feel the need to muffle ourselves so we're not thought to be in cohoots with the rabblerouser.
The bouncer is pissed. The door opens and a blast of sound comes with it. We can't hear the bouncer's words but we see his index finger hitting Drunk Boy's chest many times as instructions are repeated to go to the ticket window.
Drunk Boy actually gets to the ticket window and pulls out his pockets to find not enough funds. He is dejected and of course, comes back to our picnic table.
"I lost some money. I had lots of cash earlier but I don't have it now. Damn! I really want to see the show."

In a moment of tenderness, Dawn asks where he is from.
Ohio/Iowa/Utah.
(I forget, one of those four letter states beginning with a vowel.)
Where are your friends?
I don't know.
Where are you staying?
At some guy's house.
Do you know where?
No.
You don't know the address?
No.
How will you get back there tonight?
I'll find it. I was real messed up last night and found it so tonight's no problem.

He walks off toward the entry door and is gone awhile. They must have let him in, how about that, I think only to see him coming back with a beer in his hand.

Drunk Boy tells us he ordered a beer at the bar but when they noticed his lack of a wristband, he's thrown out.

"I'm gonna go see that band", he avows as he stands up and looks toward the backstage door.
"I wouldn't . . ." Dawn attempts to warn.
He gives her the shut-up-arm wave and ambles toward the door and opens it.
The light and sound streaks out on the sidewalk and the bouncer is on him. The bouncer grips Drunk Boy's shirt but Drunk Boy is headed inside like a cow returning to the barn. With a couple heaves, the bouncer gets Drunk Boy outside and shouts toward the entry door for assistance. No one hears him over the din of the Mother Trucker's 18 minute guitar ride and Drunk Boy detaches himself from the bouncer hug. I'm laughing so hard, beer comes out my nose.

Guess where he heads?
You got it.
Towards us.
The bouncer now has the attention of the uniformed but off-patrol NOPD officer sitting at the front door.
"Get the hell out of here NOW!" we both tell Drunk Boy, "They're gonna take you in."
"They can't arressss' me. I didn't get to see the Mother Truckerssssss!"
The bouncer sees Drunk Boy and points the cop toward us. Here comes the fuzz.
"Go!" we hiss with clenched teeth.
All the sudden, Drunk Boy catches a snap and bolts down Napoleon Avenue like a sprint runner. A cab passes him, brakes and we hear a car door open and slam. Drunk Boy escaped!
New Orleans Finest approaches and asks, "He's gone?"
We shrug. Seems so.

Drunk Boy, wherever you are, we hope you made it back to whatever vowel letter state you're from. We hope you had a good time in New Orleans and a fun Mardi Gras. We wondered if you were the tourist that woke up in an ice-filled bathtub, without a kidney. We want you to know your antics still make us laugh when Dawn and I get together. That was some Funny Ass Shit.

Fats Domino and memories of New Orleans

Just watched Fats Domino: Walkin' Back to New Orleans documentary (2007) on PBS and loved seeing his history and post-Katrina performance at Tipitina's. Guess who was in the documentary? My buddy Allen Toussaint! The documentary induced a few New Orleans memories.
Back when I was working in chilly Gentilly, in the early 1990's, a co-worker mentioned passing by Fats Domino's neighborhood at lunchtime. He told me where to find it and I planned to surprise my mom and aunt with a scenic tour during their upcoming weekend visit.

We left for the day's activities and I drove Mom's car. Getting deeper and deeper in the Ninth Ward, I finally had to reveal where we were headed. Aunt Jan was excited and pulled out her brand new fancy schmancy camera. --photo, post-Katrina

Of course, three white ladies in a shiny brand new Lexus attracted a bit of attention in the 'hood so when Aunt Jan requested another drive down the street for a better photo, I was a bit nervous.
When I turned the car around, the milling characters in the street took notice. Aunt Jan rolled down her window and pointed the camera towards Fats Domino's childhood home when a voice asked, "You ladies need some help with that camera?" Yikes! Fats Domino's music is in the soundtrack of my childhood but photo or not, we scrammed.

-check back tomorrow for page 2 of music and NOLA-

A New Orleans memory

While living in Mid City area, my place to gas up was the filling station on Esplanade Avenue, right on Bayou St. John.
One day, a brown Rolls Royce pulled to the opposite pump. A dapper man got out and proceeded to fill his tank. And of course, my big mouth had to say something.
"That's a good way to stay humble . . . pump your own gas."
The matching brown colored man smiled and laughed.
"That's about right," he said.
As I drove away, I read his vanity license plate. PIANO

photo by NoVARon

Holy crap, I just smart-assed Allen Toussaint, famed musician, songwriter and a favorite New Orleans son!


In the months and years ahead, we often found ourselves at the same gas pumps and trading hellos. He'd ask if I lived in the neighborhood and I would point across the bayou to Moss Street. I would ask if he enjoyed the recent Jazz Fest.
After I moved from New Orleans to live in Houston for a year and a half, I returned to my favorite Mid City neighborhood and found myself at the Esplanade Shell once again. And who pulls up to the pump but Mr. Toussaint! I was happy to see my famous gas station acquaintance.
"Haven't seen you in awhile. Where've you been?" he asked.

Gotta love that.

Be sure to catch Austin City Limits featuring Allen Toussaint, full episode HERE. Watch his post-Rita thoughts at the end of the show.

This is America

My life partner TiVo found a PBS documentary about the New Orleans Vietnamese community and their struggle before, during and after hurricane Katrina called "Independent Lens:A Village Called Versailles".
Culturally, their work ethic and self-sufficiency served them well in rebuilding after the hurricane but their quiet flying-beneath-the-radar way of life made them targets of a proposed land grab and an "emergency" landfill. Watch the documentary to see the best and worst of what America has to offer and a unique perspective of immigrant culture.
Here's a short youtube clip.

A concert memory

Just read Louisiana Belle's Music Quiz blog entry and quite impressed by her roster of a dream musical festival and it jogged a memory for me.

Back in the day (1987), my then boyfriend wanted to see the upcoming David Bowie "Glass Spider Tour" concert stop in New Orleans so I purchased tickets for his birthday and we attended the Superdome performance.

I'm all about a pure music performance without all the distracting trappings of dancers and such so was a little disappointed that wasn't "just David Bowie" but oh well, my dude liked it.

At the end of the concert, the house lights were still off and the entire Dome was dimly lit by upraised cigarette lighters, indicating a desire for an encore. It was quite beautiful from the vantage point of our floor seats. My boyfriend was dazzled. A bit too much.

My jaded ass finally asked, "Have you not ever seen that before?"

"No, never."

"What?! They do it after every concert."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"I've never seen it before."

"Puh-lease! Wait, when is the last time you attended a concert?"

He scrunched his eyebrows together and looked at me with those blue eyes he was so proud of and finally said, "Jimi Hendrix".

Da-yumn!

(I was six years old when the fabulouso Jimi died.)

Cowboy Mouth

The best live bar band in the world is/was the Cowboy Mouth, a kickin' band from New Orleans. They lift you up, amuse you and touch your heart. They are like a drunken revival for the soul. Here's a (not great quality) video performance of the song "How Do You Tell Someone You Don't Love Them?"

It is a poignant song if you've ever broken up with someone. You once loved them but you don't anymore. How do you say it?

how do you tell someone you don't love them?
how do you tell someone you don't care anymore?
how do you tell someone you don't love them anymore?

Heartbreaking, right?

'Cept my drunk ass heard it at a live concert right after I broke up with the alcoholic boyfriend. I had just told him I didn't love him anymore. Hell, I had to say it over and over before he finally realized I meant it. Go away, already.

Cowboy Mouth is singing angst and I am feeling happy to be rid of "love".

After each refrain, I loudly shouted a different way to tell him I didn't love him anymore.

"Get the FUCK OUT!"

"Change the fucking locks!"

My friends were so entertained by my intoxicated bitterness that they expected the same witty performance from me at each following Cowboy Mouth concert.

Since then I have added:

"Blow his dad!"

"Give him VD!",

"MARRY him",

etc.

Fast forward to seeing Cowboy Mouth's drummer and lead singer Fred LeBlanc "unplugged" at Carrollton Station in Uptown, it's just him and his guitar. As he softly sang a less rockin' version of "How Do You Tell Someone You Don't Love Them", my friends were nudging me when the refrain came and I just couldn't do it. I mean, Fred was sitting five feet away and the room was so quiet.

The cute college girls in front of me giggled and yelled out something, MUCH TO MY CHAGRIN and AMAZEMENT. Mind you, I take complete credit for it because they probably heard me at a previous concert. I was loud, I tell ya.

Anywho, gauntlet now thrown, I chimed in on the next chorus. And the cute girls took the next. Fred sat there, singing, his poignant mood broken while we shat all over his song. Thankfully, he ended the song with a laugh and a smile and remarked that he had never heard HIS song quite like that.

All's well that ends well, he awarded me with his handwritten play sheet after the show. Now framed and hanging on my wall.

Mardi Gras games

Dawn and I watched many a New Orleans Carnival parade and almost always while drinking. Most high school marching bands are local and, as you can imagine, the marching groups feature many a plus sized dancer, cheerleader, flag girl, what have you. One year, in our boozy bleary eyed self-amusement, we pointed out an exceptionally small framed dancer. Dawn yelled out, in a voice like you would use in a pet store when you spotted the cutest puppy in the world, "Look at the itty bitty one!" Thus began our favorite game to find the smallest member of each marching band. We haven't shared the game with others. Why, I dunno. Maybe it is only fun while tipsy. If you want to give it a try, remember to always say it loud and proud but in the cutesy puppy voice.

Jackin' with celebrities is another amusing Carnival pastime. Big mega krewes hire celebrities to ride in their parades. It is part of the crowd's experience to note if the celeb seems to be having fun and enjoying the Carnival experience. The more fun they seem to have, the more validation the crowd feels. Here are some celeb moments I remember.
Billy Crystal looked positively terrified for his life.
John Goodman was drunk drunk drunk. I shot him with my super powerful water gun disguised as a soda can. Bam, right in the face. He looked like a Stooge in the steady stream. He wiped his face and then grabbed his nearest buddy and pointed in the direction of the incoming water. His buddy leaned over to see what was happening. TAG! Steady hands and battery operated water stream in his friend's face. His friend Timothy Hutton. Two fer!!!!
Glenn Close seemed to enjoy her ride. Folks were screaming "Glenn Glenn Glenn!". We aimed our cameras but she was waving to the opposite side of the street. My friend John waited until the crowd took a breath and then yelled clearly, "Glenn, I will not be ignored!" Glenn snapped her head back to our side, zoomed in on John and laughed her ass off. Good times.
Camryn Manheim held a fistful of pearls, taunting the crowd. They screamed in bead starved delirium. Next, she held a the strands and ran her tongue over the pearls. A collective "ewwww" could be heard . . . then nervous laughter. The crowd seemed embarrassed that we all thought and said the same thing.
That Steve Guttenberg Police Academy dude liked our super duper water gun. He opened his mouth and received the flying fluids like a pro. The crowd laughed.

Val Kilmer. Oh Fuh Gawd. He was messed up. The parade slowed and Mr. Cool just sat in his spinning tea cup chair and and smiled. We screamed "Valerie Valerie Valerie!" and to our amazement, he laughed and waved. Movement ~~ he's alive! The krewe handlers handed him a wrapped po' boy and he scarfed into it while we watched. It was kinda like watching animals eating at the zoo. Interesting but not all together pleasant. All the sudden, Valerie decided to stand. He listed. He swayed. The crowd oohed and aahed as if they were watching the Flying Wallendas. He made his way to the hidden can under the float. We couldn't see him but geez Louise, everyone knew where he was. I mean, what must it be like to go to the bathroom with a whole crowd just feet away? He took so long that the crowd started chanting his name. The float started rolling as he tumbled out. Good times, good times.

Battered woman syndrome OR Saints fan?

Much like a woman who has suffered from physical or emotional abuse, a Saints fan knows what it is like to hope for the best but to receive the worst. Again and again.
The Saints just ran onto the field and I am wavering between hope and the need to lower my expectations.
In the way that the entire state has enjoyed Super Bowl fever these past 2 weeks, I feel the Saints have already won. If it is an evenly played game, I'll be happy.

Not sure if I am hormonal,
a big pile of nerves or
more excited than I thought
but tearing up at the team's entry, the crowd's increased volume of cheering when military posts are shown and Queen Latifah's voice.

The game starts in 6 minutes.

What Miami should expect from Saints fans

Mark Lorando of the New Orleans Times-Picayune wrote an open letter to Miami about the Who Dat Nation coming for the Super Bowl and it has been forwarded to me at least twenty times this week. Just in case you haven't seen it, here is the LINK. It's worth the click.

Quote of the day

Jay Thomas watched some "brown people" on CNN on Monday and commented that "I couldn't decide if street folks I was seeing were in Haiti or New Orleans".
Oy.

--Jay Thomas Show on Sirius satellite radio

Next: Hell will freeze over (Saints win!)

The New Orleans Saints won tonight's play-off game to cinch a spot in the 2010 Super Bowl. And just like a typical Saints game, it comes down to the last second with a kicker saving the game. This time his name was Garrett Hartley.*

I talked trash about the Saints for the last several years and haven't watched a game all season but tuned in tonight just to see what everyone else in the entire Great State of Louisiana was watching. A bakery didn't have as many turnovers as I saw tonight but Drew Brees threw completed pass even as he was being tackled. Grace under pressure, I tell ya.

During this morning's church service, the pastor's wife played piano and the intro sounded a little "blues-y". I thought, "that must be why they don't let her play very often" but she fooled us by going into "When The Saints Go Marching In". Our normally uptight congregation actually clapped in rhythm. To a beat, I say. Saints fever at 10:30 AM service.

Loved the live cam shot of a "ghost town" Bourbon Street during the game and folks emptying out of the bars 2 seconds after the win. Would love to see a frame-by-frame play of that ant pile action.

Didn't enjoy seeing that rat bastard owner Tom Benson. He's still a piece of shite to me, remember his threatening to relocate the team if he didn't get a new stadium.

Congrats Saints.

Welcome to the 13 day drunken bacchanalia leading to Super Bowl XLIV in Miami, Florida and avoid the hangover by keepin' on until Fat Tuesday (Mardi Gras) February 16th. Thinking that not much will get accomplished in our boot-shaped state until Ash Wednesday rolls around.

*Back in the day it was Morten Andersen that locked the win when everything else went to hell.

Y'at image t-shirts sold at Dirty Coast

With you but thinking of someone else

everyone here
knows that everyone here

is thinking 'bout somebody else

"Back 2 Good" by Matchbox 20

The song is about being with someone you don't love and realizing the ramifications later but it also makes me think about how many times I've wished that I were with someone other than my present company.
When I was a teen, I imagined being on vacation, standing on a Colorado mountain with my boyfriend instead of my family.
The angst of my local boyfriends not being my New York crush of all time.
College beaus that weren't another guy I really wanted.
Vacations with friends that could be imagined with the missing part of my heart.
Christmas and New Year's celebrations in the right setting but with the wrong person.
Though I've lived alone for over 20 years, I never felt so lonely as the time I sat in a noisy French Quarter bar holding the hand of my boyfriend of 2 years while New Orleans Saints fans cheered and partied at the thought of finally going to the playoffs in the 1991 Wild Card game. He wasn't THE ONE and I had known for quite a while. At the time, I didn't even know WHO I wanted, I just knew it wasn't him.
Thinking about that today, perhaps feeling a bit hormonal, makes me sad.
If you are with the person that you would hope were there, you are blessed.
If not, change it.
For me, sometimes nobody is better than somebody.

Guest writer today

I actually have to do real work today so am glomming an old e-mail that I couldn't bear to delete from my fabulous friend Mallys. Hope you enjoy her writing style as much as I do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gee, I hope nothing is seriously wrong with my car," I murmur to Susan at the gym this morning. On the way TO the gym, it felt like a wheel was a little wobbly or catching something, maybe much lower on pressure than the others or something.

As soon as I got to the gym, I measured air pressure in the front wheels--both fine.

As I'm leaving the gym, within moments in my car, I realized the car felt so odd that it was smarter to go directly to the mechanic's than to go to work. I map out my revised route and revised day in my head, completely nervous about the car.

I turn to the mechanic (down Calhoun in residential areas) instead of to work (along busy busy Claiborne).

I'm driving down Calhoun, and Mr. Police Officer flags me down. Crap. Jeff just got a ticket in a speed trap not a month ago on Jefferson Highway, and I've been watching my speed ever since, save for today (with the worry over the car, how to get from mechanic to work, how to notify work that I'll be late).

Now, not only will we have to budget in Bend Over and Take It New Orleans homeowner's insurance and skyrocketing post-Katrina prices on everything from toilet paper to fish, now I'm going to have to get a second job to afford increased car insurance premiums, which even PRE-storm were enough to make one consider Dansko clogs as one's primary form of transportation.

Mr. Police Officer: Do you know what the speed limit is?

Mallys: 25 MPH.

Mr. Police Officer: Do you know how fast you were going?

Mallys: Honestly, I don't. I'm nervous that something is wrong with my car or my tire, and I'm trying to get it to the mechanic's on Magazine as quickly as possible and then get to work. So no, I don't.

Mr. Police Officer, clearly writing me a ticket rather than taking pity: Do you have your insurance card?

Mallys, dig, dig dig: This is an old card. It's the same policy, it's been renewed under the same number, but I only have the old card.

Mr. Police Officer: Okay, I'm going to write you a ticket for that, but show up at court and they'll throw the insurance charge out.

Mallys, at the mention of "show up in court," digging more frantically, nay, insanely: No no no, wait wait wait, see see see, look look LOOOOOOOOKKKKKK, here's the new one. Here's the new one [thrusting it with such force that Mr. NOPD might have been afraid for his bodily safety].

Mr. Police Officer: Does your air conditioner work?

Mallys, whose air conditioner DOES work, but who isn't going to run it while Mr. Officer takes time to write her a ticket (add gas prices to the list above of homeowner's insurance, car insurance, and toilet paper prices), wonders if a non-functioning air conditioner is just as illegal as her MISSING TAIL LIGHT COVERS that someone stole in 2005 right after the storm and that Ford doesn't manufacture for an '89 Mustang any more: Yesssss, my air conditioner works???

Mr. Police Officer: Oh, 'cause you're sweating.

Mallys: Oh, yeah, I just came from the gym, and I'm rushing to get my car to the shop and all.

Mr. PO: I didn't think I was making you THAT nervous.

Mallys: Oh, y'all ALWAYS make me nervous. You ARE COPS, after all. But this is from the gym.

Mr. PO: You weren't wearing your seatbelt?

Mallys: No, I was. I always put on my seatbelt, even before I put the key in the ignition, but I took it off when you pulled me over. [Truth. Hell no, I won't drive MY car in THIS CITY without a seat belt. EVER.]

Mr. PO: How old are you?

Mallys, really and truly stumped, really thinking hard--my brain doesn't have room for THAT when I'm trying to get to the garage, get to work, etc.: Twentyyyyy, no no, wait, thirty-nine.

Mr. PO: Here's your ticket. I wrote you for 30 in a 25 MPH zone.

Mallys, thinking that it could be a lot LOT worse, not only because I probably was going faster than 30 MPH, and, what, with the sweating and the frantic insurance card digging/thrusting and the initial misstating of my age by AT LEAST 10 YEARS, and the missing tail light cover and the Illinois plates and driver's license despite a New Orleans address. Hell, he probably could've justified a field sobriety test, which I doubt I would've passed, owing to my complete and utter clumsiness: Thank you. Have a nice day, officer.

I drive two blocks. I'm second in line at a stop sign. #1 pulls off, now it's my turn.

But my car won't move. Won't move. Won't move in drive, not in overdrive, not in park, not in neutral. Won't budge.

I try two or three times to shift to different gears. Won't budge. People are honking.

I get out of my car and go to the attractive, well-coiffed, 50-something in the SUV behind me: Look, ma'am, I'm really sorry, but my car won't move. I don't know what it is, but it won't move. I'm going to try to push it. I'm really really sorry.

Well-coiffed woman gets out of SUV. Wearing adorable floral skirt, sassy t-shirt, chic sandals: "Well, then we're going to have to push it," she says, and walks to the back of my bumper. I can't budge it while trying to push it.

It's a one way street, cars parked on both sides, no room to go around me. People keep honking. Well-coiffed woman takes several steps back to face the traffic, puts her hands on her hips, and YELLLLLLSSS at all the people honking: Well, then, get out of your cars and HELP INSTEAD OF HONKING.

She shames three or four men into getting out of their cars.

Meanwhile, another woman getting into her parked car says, "I think I saw something leaking from behind your right passenger tire." She then goes back to the end of the row of cars and tells them to back up, find another route, etc.

The boys are now being boys: Take your brake off.

Mallys: It's not on.

Boys: Put it in neutral.

Mallys: It's **IN** neutral.

And let's face it, **I** could push that car, by myself (see above re: gym), if it were in neutral. The fact that I can't push it while it's now in neutral is the problem.

Boys: Pop the hood.

Okay, I'm no mechanic. Far from it. I don't even like checking my tire pressure. But I know that this is not a hood-popping issue.

Fine, I pop the hood. They look around underneath, waiting for some magical What's Wrong With This Car teleprompter under my hood to give them the diagnosis. Boy #3 pulls out my oil dipstick: So this is your automatic transmission fluid. . . .

Mallys: No, that's my oil.

The boys are stymied. But they say, "Come on, let's push it again."

It takes FOUR big boys, big big boys in two cases, and multiple multiple tries to push my car 15 feet.

Hmmm, I wonder if something's seriously wrong. . . .

Nice girl (whom I later learn is named Katie and is beginning her doctoral program in my building) says, "Would you like to borrow my cell phone?"

Mallys, the last human being in the Western hemisphere to NOT own a cell phone and still not any closer to WANTING one, accepts gratefully.

I call my boys at Rollins auto repair for a towing number.

Meanwhile, the line of cars has passed, including a police car, and I really hope it was the cop who gave me a ticket so that he could have one tiny moment of guilt (granted, he could've been much meaner to me).

I call Boss to let her know that I'm standing in the street, dripping sweat, trying to get my hoopdie to the garage and may or may not make it to Canal Street today.

I call the tow truck. Come get me at Calhoun and Willow. They'll be there in 30 minutes.

I thank Kind Katie for the use of her phone, tell her I may see her in the building, and she goes on her way.

I wait, flashers on (I'm right next to a fire hydrant, almost into the intersection, so am not even TEMPTED to leave my car, lest I be given the opportunity to make ANOTHER donation to the City of New Orleans).

And believe it or not, MANY nice people stopped to ask me if I was okay, did I need anything, was help on the way. Including one typical undergrad, who I wouldn't have expected to interrupt her cell phone call--as she did--to inquire about my well being.

I'm sitting, waiting, fanning myself, having homicidal thoughts about the particularly aggressive gnat that won't leave me alone. Sweat is dripping dripping dripping. About 45 minutes later, Thor--a boy I know from the gym--pulls up. He gets out of his truck. We chat. He offers the use of his phone. I call the towing company.

Mallys: blah blah Calhoun and Willow.

Tow truck: Oh, you said CARROLLTON and Willow. The guy's been driving all around CARROLLTON and Willow looking for you. We even called Rollins to see if they'd seen you.

Mallys, in no position to get snippy: Gee, gosh, no **Calhoun**. Maybe I wasn't talking clearly, and the background noise and all.

I may not know how old I am, or how to find my current insurance card, or how to replace stolen tail light covers for a 19-year-old car, but if I were at CARROLLTON and Willow, I'd have walked the 6 blocks to my house and to my gin in my freezer where I would've had an early morning cocktail before tackling the recurrent question, "What's wrong with my car THIS time?"

Fine. Tow truck driver gets there in about 10 minutes. Drives me and the poor little '89 Mustang to Magazine street. I talk to my mechanics and instruct them that if it's a relatively cheap fix, they can change my oil, too. And if it's an expensive fix, it may be time to send the '89 Mustang off with Kitty Cat and Georgie Cat and JohnJohn Cat to play with the Girl in the Pink Pinafore in the Great Beyond.

I lug gym bag, tote bag, lunch bag, and purse 5 or 6 blocks in this sweltering, drowning heat (AFTER having stood in the sweltering heat for at least an hour).

Coffee shop #1: no phone [and still, inexplicably, I have no desire for a cell phone]

Bank across the street: let me use their phone, but cab dispatch line is busy and other customers are waiting to attend to their administrative banking needs. I write down the United Cab number and head to Coffee Shop #2, where the nice counter girl lets me use the phone. I get through, order a cab.

I wait, and wait, and wait. Cab arrives.

I kid you freaking not: Cab driver is Mr. freaking Magoo. He can't see. He can't HEAR [I keep yelling at him "2440 Canal Street," to which he responds, "Okay, 400 Canal Street."]. His FINGERNAILS are wayyyyy overgrown. HE WON'T TURN THE AIR CONDITIONER ON. And yes, he is wearing black socks with sandals.

As he's driving, he keeps his foot on the accelerator for 4 seconds, then takes it off, for no identifiable reason--it's not an intersection, there's no traffic in front of us, just keeps hitting the gas, taking his foot off the gas, hitting the gas, taking his foot off the gas, braking for no reason, gas, no gas, gas, brake. This was THE only point in the whole ordeal that I thought I would either cry, or felonious assault someone else. He says as we're turning onto Canal Street, "Okay, 400 Canal Street."

Mallys: No, 2440 Canal Street.

Mr. Magoo: Huh?

Mallys, louder and enunciating: Twenty-four forty Canal Street.

Mr. Magoo: Right. Four hundred Canal Street.

Mallys, contorting her lips into painful exaggerations of the words and screaming at the top of her lungs: FOURTEEN FORTY. FOURTEEN FORTY. TWO BLOCKS FROM **HERE**. FOURTEEN FORTY.

Mr. Magoo: Oh, well let me know where it is. I don't want to pass your building.

Mallys: It's right past the light.

Mr. Magoo: Huh?

Mallys, loudly, enunciating, screaming: RIGHT PAST THE LIGHT.

Mr. Magoo: Oh, I should've turned RIGHT?

Mallys, yanking the car handle frantically: Let me out here. RIGHT HERE. RIGHT HERE IS FINNNNNE.

Why the hell NOT walk another block in the heat, after my morning?

This little escapade began at 8:05.

I was not entering my blessedly frigid office building until 11:10.

And here I sit.

Hmmmm. I hope there's nothing seriously wrong with my car. . . .

Adventurously yours,

Mallys in Dunderland [aka, Sweaty McScofflaw]

When I see blood, I usually faint

But one time, the sight of blood made me laugh.
Hard.
So hard that I almost fainted.

Back in the early 1990's or so, Chrysanthemum (Lynn) came for a Mardi Gras weekend visit. After drinking all day and standing outside after the parades had ended, she and I got our eyes stuck on a New Orleans water meter cover.

For such a utilitarian object, it is quite beautiful. She and I pondered alternate uses for them, like really cool stepping stones or rugged kitchen counter trivets . . . before we could finish our 40 ouncers of beer, we were trying to pry it from the sidewalk. Nope, a kitchen spatula eventually did the trick. We did have the presence of mind to steal MY cover because it would shift any suspicion from me. Well, it made sense at the time. But even in our drunkenness, safety was key. The open hole in the ground was a hazard so we rolled up a 24 pack beer box and wiggled it into the now uncovered hole. The box nicely protruded from the hole and alerted others to the danger. We laughed and giggled as we carried the heavy cover to her car.

The following Monday I was relaxing in my apartment when my boyfriend entered with a pant leg rolled up, a nasty gash on his shin and blood tricking down to his socks.

"Some idiot stole your water meter cover!"

Laughter~~

"What are you laughing at? I parked and walked around the back of my truck and my foot went down the hole!"

More laughter~~

"I am lucky I didn't break my goddamned leg!"

Shrieks of laughter~~endless giggles.

Finally, I was able to sputter out, "Didn't you see the box?"

"WHAT box? What is wrong with you? I almost broke my leg and someone stole your cover!"

It took forever before I could tell him that Chrysanthemum absconded with the cover and I aided and abetted her with the theft and no, I couldn't help him bandage his leg because blood makes me woozy.

I still laugh every time I remember this story.

Funny memory

When I lived in New Orleans, my mom and her sister visited me for a weekend. We found ourselves at Pat O'Brien's patio bar right about the time that the business man types were breaking from happy hour. A couple friendly types start chatting us up and my mom and aunt thought their interest was amusing. They were kinda tipsy and not-at-all smooth. I had just broken up with an alcoholic so not (and still not) very patient with drunks. They ask what's your name, where do you work, where do you live? All that crap. And none of their business. My Aunt Joan says to them, "Oh, that's Leezra. She don't care 'bout nuthin'."

Mom and I laughed until we were weak. The remaining of the weekend we repeated it. And we decided that it would be on my tombstone.

Here lies Leezra. She didn't care 'bout nuthin'.

A few more Mardi Gras sights

Normally I hate on tiny hinnie girls, but this chick burped on command for our entertainment so we liked her. Plus, she looked cute in a baby stroller holding a beer bottle. When we asked her back flipping friend (you heard me) what kind of beer they were drinking, she said it was from Belgium. Curious, we looked closer at the label. No, dummy, it says Vermont. She shrugged and replied, "Same thing."


Check out this freak-on-ice. She went ape when she spied blue Jell-O shots and repeated over and over "You have blue Jell-O! Yay!" Her eyes seem to reveal some sort of brain swelling, which explains the protective head gear.

Oops!!! I opened a PortALet door only to spy this dude reading a micro-organisms textbook. Yikes.

Looks can deceive

Take a look at this piece of walking fashion pollution. Wouldn't you guess that she is a fun loving sort what with her crazy glasses and dueling stripes? She was happy to catch beads but when the Tucks krewe came by and tossed their signature toilet paper through the air, she seemed mighty displeased and in a huff, picked it up and marched over to the closest trash can. Just goes to prove that you can make no assumptions based on appearance.

More Mardi Gras sights

Cage dancer in the Tucks krewe parade

Reno 911 guys in the Bacchus parade

We laughed at this guy's velvet vulva rose

A new Mardi Gras economy

It is called the largest free show in the world but during Mardi Gras, one of the most valuable things is access to a restroom. Zion Lutheran on St. Charles Avenue cashes in the supply/demand. And looka, their sign shows a price increase from last year.

And yes, this photo was taken by me. My favorite online photo editing service, Snipshot, just dropped their free service so I used pizap today. Now experimenting with Picnik. Anyone have a favorite photo editing suggestion?

Take a gander at this pic I snapped at the Grace Episcopal church on Canal Street. They are offering beer and brownies but they have a value added item. FREE PortALets! They are making money off the front end but being a good neighbor by preventing idiots from peeing in the MidCity alleys. Yep, that was Ernest and me last year peeing behind the wooden gate.

And here is proof of the growing Latino influence in New Orleans.

Makes me wish I could skate

Actually, I skate just fine. It is the stopping part that hurts.

How hilarious is this? Instead of running bulls thru the streets, an organizer gets Roller Girls to roll thru New Orleans' French Quarter and pummel the male runners.

The idea was to outfit these tougher-than-tough broads on skates, er -- ladies -- with cattle horns, Whiffle Ball bats and swimming pool noodles, and unloose them onto thrillseekers who would run from them. When Hanning inquired of the Rollergirls' availability last year, event coordinator Tracey Bellina, who skates under the pseudonym of "Archbishop Pummel," told him: "Sure, I've got a bunch of bad-ass chicks on wheels who probably wouldn't mind beating up on a bunch of guys."

Sigh.

If you ever saw me smack the butts of Mardi Gras revelers with a plastic flyswatter, you KNOW I would be fabulous at whacking guys with whiffle ball bats. Maybe too fabulous.

FULL Story LINK

NOLA Bulls Organization info

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