Out of the Wild

As I type this post, I'm sitting in a coffee shop in downtown Anchorage, buzzed on caffeine, waiting for my plane. I'm leaving Alaska after a little more than four months.

I know that my posts from Alaska have been scant-- filled with pictures but containing little substance. I've been busy, and when I wasn't busy, I was lazy. And I was at work quite a bit. And sometimes I was hungover. And there was a period where I didn't have my laptop. And another period where I didn't have my laptop charger. But enough excuses. On my last day here, let's talk about Alaska.

Alaska is a beautiful, beautiful, wild place. I went on several hikes that I will remember for ages. The landscape is vast and harsh, overwhelming and bewitching. I was almost attacked by a moose. I got to pet a particularly curious fox on a drunken night on the way home from the bar. I got within twenty feet of a black bear who was thankfully indifferent to me. I rafted on a glacier fed river. I bathed in a stream miles away from the nearest person. I saw the northern lights dance across the sky. I explored the state capital, inaccessible by road. I wandered the biggest city, Anchorage, and enjoyed a street fair and a baseball game (starting at midnight and utilizing no artificial light) in Fairbanks. I dosed acid and wandered through a music festival, convinced something big was happening. I had an incredible live music experience at the World Famous Denali Salmon Bake with the Stumblebum Brass Band. I cooked a grouse, and ate part of a moose and fresh caught Alaskan salmon. It was four months filled with amazing experiences.

I went there to work at a gift shop, and let's be honest, that was awful. It was the worst job I've ever had. The place was poorly ran, the employers were indifferent to the employees, and the customers were generally rude and haughty. I met several people thee as well-- some I enjoyed and others I delight in never having to see again. I made several assumptions about native Alaskans, seasonal workers, and Alaskan tourists that are negative and irrelevant to this post. I do not regret my time here.

What do I regret? I never made the 9 hour bus trip out to Wonder Lake to photograph Mount McKinley. I never camped overnight in Denali National Park. I never got a good view of a grizzly bear, and never saw a wolf or a bull moose sporting a giant set of antlers. I never made it north of the Arctic Circle. Alas-- there's always next year.

I do not think I will come back to Denali next year, but I think I will return to Alaska. The Kenai peninsula looks inviting. Maybe a short weekend trip up to Denali to do some of the things I missed? We'll see. Right now, though, it's back to New Orleans

Monkey Gone To Heaven

Earlier in the summer I got a ticket from the Alaskan State Troopers. An open container violation demanding $210 from me.

One afternoon earlier in the summer (the same night this picture was taken, it so happens, although it is doubtful, nay!, plain wrong, the date of this encounter was July 1) we went out to Windy Bridge to explore and initiate Alex and Danny into life as an Alaskan summer worker (these pictures were taken just before the law got involved-- once again, though, not on the 21st of June. In fact, I looked at my citation; all of this occurred on June 21st. Whatever.). Anyway, we drank a few beers, opted not to litter, and carried several empty bottles back to the car. Unfortunately, some of us were far drunker than others-- Danny opted to run around the bridge with a bottle in hand, attracting the police who, after applying breathylizers to the group, wrote us all these tickets.

However, as the judge was begrudgingly forced to admit, Alaska's open container laws apply only to the driver of vehicles, not passengers. So we got off. We fought the law, and we won. The monkey (one of many) is off my back. The cop almost cried, he was so disappointed.

American justice. Fuck yeah.

Daredeviling under Windy Bridge

Windy bridge takes the George Parks Highway over the Nenana river between Healy and McKinley Village. It is thus named because of the speed of the breeze whipping through the canyon. We hung out here one afternoon-- drank some beers, watched the river, and balanced our way across somewhat oblivious the the drop below.

Rafting the Nenana beneath the bridge. We rafted earlier in the summer-- good times!

Johnny, giving a shining example of the kind of ridiculous shenanigans we should not have partaken in whilst drinking.

Campfire Tales

Nothing like a late evening bonfire to pass a dull Alaskan day.  This one actually prompted me to quit drinking for a few weeks after a remarkably awkward incident involving me blacked out and pissing on the floor of my cabin.  Roommate = unhappy.  Naturally.

Hooligans

Naughty Corbin

Faris/Tyler

Two Tylers and a Corbin

Humdinger

It was, to speak lightly, the greatest party of the decade... a Mardi Gras to remember.

Some photos:

a Krewe float

mardi gras rushing

bourbon/babylon

Wild, drug-fueled, endlessly enjoyable-- I was awake for almost six days straight, working 16-18 hours a day.  Making endless amounts of money, drinking endless amounts of booze, popping the pills, doing the best cocaine I've ever stumbled across.  

Whenever I think of Mardi Gras, this is the one I'll ponder upon-- shuffling through the hazy memories like playing cards, ruminating on them, smiling about them.  My final days in New Orleans were some of the best of my life...despite the events to come.

Some Girls:

Suicide Tuesday

I find myself, here on this Suicide Tuesday, alive... vaguely.  Not dead, not permanently maimed, not mindlessly vacant and wandering the streets panhandling for change and wrestling dogs for scraps like a psychotic.  My eyesight is almost entirely back to normal.  I have, more than once, had the energy to get out of bed.  I had the urge to eat something-- not much, but baby steps, of course.  I'm yet to be able to gain an erection, but I'm sure that skill will return in time, and besides... I don't have the energy for one now anyway.  Yes, it was quite a weekend.

I was feeling whimsical after work on Saturday, when we all headed deliriously over to Amps with giant styrofoam letters left at the bar from the private birthday party we had just finished hosting.  I had little interest in spending my hard earned money on a drug I was tired of, as I am fairly tired of cocaine, and instead tried a little harder and got four hits of ecstasy for the same price.  Yay.

So, the rest of the night and most of the morning was spent rolling about the French Quarter.  My initial instincts had been to hookup, but that proved impossible in my attention-deficit state, coupled with the fact that it was about 8am.  Noonish, I went by the bar to retrieve a bag I had left the night before, made my self a triple and wandered out to catch the bus back to Meitaire. 

None of this is the problem, really.  In fact, I was very happy throughout the previously mentioned adventures, as MDMA is wont to make someone be.  In fact, throughout my experimentation, X is definitely my favorite illicit substance.  It's just so overwhelming yet clear.  So complete and intoxicating and still something one can somewhat function on and be out in something similar to a version of public.  The problems began when I got home, wasn't the least bit sleepy, was still rolling a bit, and started drinking on an empty stomach.

I drank all day Sunday.  Jeana got home and took me out to a bar for a drink or two after she got off work.  I came home and continued drinking.  I passed out sometime around 3 in the bathroom.  Sometime around 5 I relocated to my bed.  I woke up around noon (yes, still rolling a bit) and fixed myself a bloody mary, followed by a screwdriver.  This is, I will admit, where awkward decisions were made on my part.  Some people may know that certain kinds of cough syrup and most types of allergy pills will, when taken in unrecommended quantities will make you pleasantly (or unpleasantly, depending on your disposition) wrecked.  So, going to CVS to procure these drugs were not a good idea.  Taking an entire bottle and box of both substances whilst still on a bit of a roll and steadily consuming vast amounts of alcohol was a stupendously bad idea.  I did, however, have quite a time while I could both stand and stay awake.  I passed out in the vicinity of 11(pm) on Monday and awoke about 6(pm) on Tuesday.  Most of the preceding was written on Wednesday.

So, yes, preach if you must... I guess I could have died and that it is a grand miracle that I'm alive.  I did, however, have buckets and buckets of fun.  As I'm conscience to write this, I say even trade.

Orpheus

I slid into work just before midnight, already well lubricated from the Brad Paisley concert, and poured myself a triple Jack and Coke.  There was a decent crowd, I went about my work, stocking, refilling, cleaning.  It was Latin Party-- the promoter arrived, the place filled up to capacity within fifteen minutes like a tidal wave overtaking a coastal town. 

Three bartenders scrambling to serve 100 people, one barback scrambling to keep from running out of necessities, unable to get to the store rooms, unable to move through the packed club.

...alerted security to the old homeless man dancing for change inside the VIP after his 'audience' made clear they wished her were no longer there.  It was cold outside-- he didn't want to go.

...ran out of ice, made several trips down to the corner store, dragging back bag after bag or ice, arriving only to have to go again almost immediately. 

...saw the girls screaming and bickering on the side walk, saw the unconscious girl dragged to the chair.

The police came shortly after to deal with the screaming girls, who had stopped their screaming and supplemented it with brawling.  Three cop cars, their lights a fine accompaniment to the house music blasting inside.  Upon entering the lobby, the cops discovered the OD in the chair, called an ambulance to take her away.  Official club position is that she drank too much... I've seen plenty of drunk people, none whose eyes rolled back like that.  Trying to move the girl angered her male companion-- he attacked the police officers and was promptly arrested.

Three strikes, you're out.  Tired of this nonsense, the NOPD shut down the Ohm Lounge at 3am, cleared everyone out, robbed us of at least another $1000 in tips.  The employees promptly went to @ to bemoan their misfortune.

"Chaos, baby.  Bang your head on that."

"How're You Doing?": A Response

     Today, via MySpace, I received a curious e-mail.  Not curious in content, but in timing and also, perhaps, in directness.  It was a message from an estranged comrade, asking simply "How are you?", and including a few words to ensure I recognized sincerity and not some sort of ironic malice.

The inevitability of this text had been with me for some time-- I was fairly certain the message would come sometime, but like death or El Dorado it was "further, always further".  To find it suddenly in my inbox was to be taken aback as one always is when distant things are suddenly thrust into the present, but also aback due the the fact that only a few days prior I had thought for a moment about the likelihood of receiving such an e-mail.  Another case of Parrallel Synchronized Randomness, I suppose.  Unfortunately, for boring and complicated reasons I was unable to reply.  So, in optimistic response and for the general populous, this is how I am doing:

I've taken to drinking in excess whenever I choose to drink, and my drug use is ravenous.  I look at these things objectively, from the outside looking in, and sense issues might be arising but... my mind usually dissents and things continue normally.  I'm in a state of tiredness most of the time, have come to averaging twelve hours a night whenever possible, but that could potentially be explained by the prior issues or by other things, but, quite honestly, it was never that unusual.

Despite the afore-mentioned drug an alcohol intake, my food diet is healthier than it's ever been-- I've almost entirely given up soda and dairy milk, and cut fried foods drastically.  I lost almost 30 pounds on the Appalachian Trail-- I've gained 15-20 of those back, but a percentage as muscle, which, as larger people like to say, "...weighs more than fat."

I'm also faced with the possibility of diving headfirst into a live-in S/M relationship with a man in Grand Isle that I am considering despite all the entanglements and complications of my on-the-road lifestyle.  I fear I may be overestimating my cleverness, emotional reserve and/or escape ability--

You see, I've purchased a bicycle which I plan on learning to ride as soon as the weather improves and I can find the time-- then I plan on taking it cross country on a series of whimsical missions a friend of mine is devising.  I'm staying with her in Metairie until after Mardi Gras, as I've committed myself to work at the Ohm Lounge 'til that point. Metairie is... awful, and I'm in a state of continual restlessness that finds me endlessly surfing travel sites and reading travel books and perusing my old road trip photos.

Reading back over this, I think it may be the most honest account of my general well-being I've ever written. 

 

Red Bull Gives You Wings

     It is like a slow ascent to consciousness, like floating up from the bottom of the sea towards the sky above.  You realize that you are cold, but you don't know what you can do about it.  Next, you realize that you are walking, but it seems natural so you continue.    Then it dawns on you that you are outside, but that doesn't seem odd.  Finally you come to your senses and realize, with regret and shock, that you haven't the slightest idea where you are.  You're wandering around outside, without a jacket, in what appears to be a random suburb filled with unfamiliar houses.  This is not your suburb.

You check yourself.  You're fairly clean and dry, so you've been on your feet the entire time-- luckily no rolling around in the dewy grass of someone's front yard.  You see a Picayune on the ground and are thankful that you are assumedly still in the New Orleans Metro Area.  You pick it up and check the date:  Sunday.  This is right, last night was Saturday.  Check your pockets-- your phone is gone.  You have your ID, a debit card, and one single dollar.  Hope you didn't go to any ATMs whilst you were blacked out.

You pull your arms into your shirt and shiver and walk, and you curse yourself and your situation, staring around dully in disbelief.  Finally you stumble onto Veteran's Boulevard, but you're on the south side and far too west. You go into a gas station, looking a fright, and get twenty dollars out of an ATM. You stumble into a nearby sports bar, call a cab, and have a beer while you wait.

You get home and learn several things:  you gave your phone to your friend before disappearing, assumedly into a cab.  You left the bar around five-- you came to around nine.  During four unaccounted hours you spent thirty nine of the forty dollars you don't remember getting out of the ATM.  Theoretically, that money went to the cab driver that dumped you in the middle of nowhere.  You also realize you don't remember any of the five (5) drinks, four of which were bought for you, you had at the bar before abruptly leaving.  Mystery somewhat solved, you cancel all plans for the day and crash hard and long into your bed.

This friends, is a shining example of the absolute empirical evil that is Red Bull.  When mixed with vodka, it produces a delicious concoction that will try it's hardest to kill you.  While straight booze/beer/wine will dull your mind and body and eventually leave you passed out on the floor/couch/pool table/wherever, Red Bull and vodka will only dull your mind, keeping your body sprightly and alert so that it leaps joyfully into autopilot while your mind passes into shadow.

Experiences don't lie; you have been warned.

Semi-Charmed Kinda Life: Lessons from the Weekend

Things I learned this weekend:

*If you smoke crystal meth out of a water bong that is filled with orange juice, you avoid that awful 'meth mouth' taste that dries you out and makes you feel icky.

*The quality of cocaine in Austin, Texas is a great deal higher than the quality of cocaine in New Orleans, Louisiana.  It's cheaper, too.

*If you're screwing around with a guy in a long-term relationship and his boyfriend in turns gets a crush on you, issues arise.  It's probably best to avoid these types of things.

*Poppers and blindfolds will make you lose your mind.  Not in a good way, either.  In a 'HOLY FUCK WHERE THE HELL AM I AND WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!?!?' kind of way.

*It's fun to steal hardcore pornography from annoying gay Republican suburbanites, even if you really don't have any need for the porn.  Also, apparently, gay Republican suburbanites are some of the kinkiest people you will ever meet, and have plenty of accessories and toys and the best porn ever (until you steal it).

*If you check into a hotel with an incompetent staff after night audit, you're likely to get a free night.  Or maybe it just really is America's Best Value Inn...

*Cialis works.  Really well.  For a long time.

*Meth is not as glorious as it seems, and returning to it after more than a year's absence is a bit underwhelming.  Somehow, when I've done it in the past it's had a much more pleasurable effect.  This weekend was just kind of blah... but it could have been the company and not the chemicals.

*It's not a 'walk of shame' if you leave on Friday afternoon and stumble in on Tuesday morning... It's a 'miracle you're alive'. 

*You can always find trouble if you know where to look, no matter where you are or how long you've been there.

And finally...

*Drugs are bad, sleep is good, and truer words were never spoken.

Epic Fail: The Daiquiri Bay Knife Fight and My Descent into Alcoholism

Attention class-- Please raise your hand if you believed I had the constitution to be a non-drinking sober person. Anyone?  Anyone?  Well, to hell with you all, you were right.

That Jeana Richard with the evil red eyes?  She just might be the devil.  That is a chocolate daiquiri and it was absolutely fabulous.

But in my defense-- I had only moments prior had a near-death experience, and had no choice but to turn to alcohol to calm my nerves.  Yes, it's true.  we were at Daiquiri Bay, a lovely little daq shop near our Metarie home when, hark, what sound but a woman screaming?  Nay, not really screaming.  Bellowing.  Like a cow.  Apparently some crazy NOLA East boy pulled a knife on her because she was being drunken and annoying.  She told him it was very disrespectful to say "fuck" in front of her.  Or she told him it was disgusting that he threw up in the bathroom.  Or something.  I don't know... Either way he pulled a knife but was driven away by a pack of angry regular customers.  The boy fled on foot and the police came.  They asked us is we saw anything.  We didn't.  

Later, we went to Frat House and I had more to drink.  Oh, alcohol.  It's good to have you back.

Souled Out

Topic A--

On September 22 (yesterday) I sold my soul to the almighty god of profit and returned to work in the dark mines of despair that is the reservations office of New Orleans Boutique Hotels (Have you noticed my ridiculous indecision about this particular career path in my last several posts?  Are you as bored with and annoyed by this wishy-washy petulant whining as I have become?  Good-- just confirming we are, in fact, on the same page).  Really, I had no other choice.  I was flat out of money and had spent the week prior on a desperate quest throughout Metarie trying to find some responsibility-less nonsense blue-collar/retail/food service thing, but was continually turned down because (I can only assume) I was either over-qualified or unconvincing in my guarantees that I would take the job seriously and was in it for the long haul.  Anyway, no one would hire me.  So I chartered my little canoe and sailed down the River Styx back into Hades.  No, really--it is very, very bad.  I spend nine hours a day in various states of unhappiness and rage.  It makes me hate not only my boss and coworkers and patrons, but every single other person in the entire world who doesn't have to be there.  I'm counting down the days until the second of October, because that's the day on which I will have been there long enough to have received a paycheck large enough to pay Jeana what I owe her, and can make a big, unruly scene and walk out.  Oh, how I despise that awful, awful place.

Topic B--

I have stopped drinking.  Yes, yes-- I know.  That is a serious thing to do, but I truly believe it was time.  You may remember a few weekend back (or was it last weekend?  Time is hard)  when I missed Jen and the Saints game due to exhaustion and intoxication... well, too many weekends like that would kill someone.  But another weekend like the one just past, and someone would kill me.  Friday-- drunk fight with Abby (moderately wasted).  Saturday-- working at Ohm (completely, unbelievable destroyed).  Sunday-- drinking and watching the Saints game (still wasted from previous night) and then throwing up inside Jeana's (new) Xterra (sobered up slightly after that in order to make an admirable go at cleaning the interior of the car.  Unfortunately, that new car smell is gone forever).  So yeah, I'm fairly lucky I have a place to live and a life to live therein with, because so many people wished harm and death upon me over this (my birthday) weekend that I had no choice but to reevaluate my existence. No more alcohol.  No really, I mean it.  

P.S. Jeana has forgiven me and vowed to get me to start drinking again. If anyone could do it, I think she's the only one with the right, but I'm standing firm.  No more alcohol.  Seriously, I'm not joking.  Done.

Cake and Candles

It was my birthday...

...and now, I am 23.

Just Like a Woman: Joani Richard Turns 21

There is, really, no excuse whatsoever to justify being at Harrah's at 6am on a weekday... unless, of course, someone is turning twenty one and it's there first time there.  And although these pictures don't represent it (these are from the bar-crawl before and the party the next night), we really were there.  At 6am.  Which I've done before.  More than once.  Ugh.

Birthday Girl

Russo, Tracy, Joani

an assortment of girls

Brad, Jeana, DJ, Russo

I have partied nonstop for two days...again.  That's twice in less than a week.  With my own birthday coming up, I may just disintegrate into a puddle of light beer and tequila.  I'm hungover.  I need a nap.  Happy birthday, Joani.

Tangled Up In Blue

(...and, by the way, we're going to stay on this Bob Dylan train until it derails.  It tickles me.)

Everything went wrong this weekend, and I have no one but myself to blame.  Well, no one but myself for most of it.  

I certainly isn't my fault that the stupid NOPD came into the Ohm on Friday and shut the fucking place down at 2:30am, threatening to throw everyone in jail and neighing incessantly about stupid 'curfew'.  Nor is it my fault that, to avoid the same thing happening again we shut Ohm down at two the next night, which prevented anyone from making any money because, let's be honest, no one comes out on Saturday before 2 anyway.  So, we went to Amps to relax with free drinks and, y'know what?, stupid fucking NOPD rolled in about 3 and shut them down, too.  Ridiculous fuckfaces.

My blame comes into play with the fact that Jen was in town from Baltimore for a couple of days and I wanted to see her and didn't, and that I had a comp ticket to the Saints game on Sunday and didn't go.  After spending Friday night and Saturday night twisted on tequila, coffee, and coke I crashed and crashed hard come Sunday morning, missing noon kick-off by three hours and Jen lunch by four.  So, if I had behaved and acted responsibly, I could have seen Jen and gone to the game, but would have never broken into a pool to go skinny dipping, camped in the back of a car for 4 hours, or done lines in the bathroom of a CCs on Magazine Street.  I'm not sure the scales don't level out here.   

But anyway, we are all Sisyphus' children, and like a fool I have descended back into the quagmire that is New Orleans Boutique Hotels.  I was officially brought back onto staff in a ridiculous meeting on Monday, and will return to the office as soon as the phones are corrected (they still are undergoing post-Gustav problems).  I am not happy about this situation-- I am pretty sure I will regret it, and become bitter and miserable before I leave.  But, even if you know you're in a circle, it doesn't mean you can break out.  Fuck it-- I'm in New Orleans until after Halloween.

Highway 61 Revisited

Enough.  Goddamn, enough is enough.  Things have wandered awry.  Why is it that there cannot be a hurricane evacuation that is not surreal, unpleasant and painful.  If Katrina was like Apocalypse Now, a long strange journey into madness, then Gustav was A Streetcar Named Desire-- a group of people living together who should not, drinking more than anyone should.  Some beaten down, some desperate for love and attention.  Bitches, peacekeepers, the oblivious.  There were bound to be fireworks.  It is too late tonight to drag the past out into the light.

Josh and Abby

Wayne, Joe and Abby

Abby

Suffice it to say, there were fun times in Natchez.  Bowies, The Under-the-Hill Saloon, Andrews-- these are fun places.  Maybe the match to the kindling was when the power went out.  And stayed out for more than twenty four hours.  It got hot, no one could sleep-- everyone was tired.  And in the end, Abby and I were deserted in the hotel, lied to, and generally made to look like fools.  I am tired of these little children and their little children ways.  We took scenic Highway 61 back to New Orleans, and, by God, we got there.  It was a little victory.  

Eve of Destruction

From the Superdome...

It's not like last time.  This time, there's no foolish bravado, only fear.  People are packing up and moving out, some for good. 

Saturday night, normally one of the five or ten busiest weekends of the year;  Most restaurants are closed, most hotels are boarded up.  Bars are open, but the crowds are thin.   Sunday morning, and the streets are deserted-- we close up the Ambassador Hotel and hit the road.

We're driving to Natchez, Mississippi, where we operate a Country Inns and Suites.  Contraflow starts on I-10, extends on I-55 up to McComb, and the traffic is still bumper to bumper.  We should have taken Highway 61, but lessons learned.  There's nothing to do but creep along and drink.  It's 10am.

On the Road...

The Drinking...

The Peeing...

The Little Italy Festival: Balt Amore

Open scene on a jubilant celebration of Italian heritage on an unbearable early summer day in Baltimore, Maryland.

In a room heavily air-conditioned against the oppressive heat outdoors, we sat. And we drank. And we played bingo, presided over by an ancient crone named Rose. Later, I would have ravioli, and a cannoli, and would continue to drink.

Wandering the festive streets scorching in the afternoon sunshine we shenaniganed. There was no breeze from the inner harbour-- in the red-hot stifle of a Baltimore summer we retreated into an Italian neighborhood bar and drank Italian beer. Night fell, and there hazy recollections overtake sound judgement. Who was that boy you were making out with in the corner, Jen? Did Emily just make the bartender cry?

All that is clear is that we drank, heavily, and that it is unlikely that modesty will allow any member of our party from returning to said bar.

Daisy Chain

Hey Josh!  What did you do this afternoon?  Well, disembodied voice, let me tell you what I did.  I threw on my Rolling Stones t-shirt, hopped in my time machine, and went back the 1968. How was it, you ask?  It was lovely.

After work, Abby Autin and I leapt vigorously onto the idea of going for a walk in City Park.  So we did.  We wandered the trails, looked at the ducks and the turtles and the squirrels, and we marveled at the wandersome oak trees that stretch their limbs out for miles and miles from their knotty, aged trunks.

We  finally found ourselves at the statue garden.  Upon slipping inside, we prudently chose only to pay heed to the large sign that said "Free Admission."  We ignored the smaller sign directly under it that read "Suggested Donation".  

Anyway,  to the inside.  We saw the Greek goddesses and the Hercules and the abstract art.  We rang the civil rights lynch victim Japanese bell.  We tiptoed across the weird tide pool thing while wondering aloud if we were actually supposed to be standing on this at all.  And then we got the the quad with the wooden horse and the giant spider and the Blue Dog and the LOVE.  And what, dear friends, do you suppose was underneath that giant spider?  Four girls with Sharpee cat noses, sitting on blankets and blowing bubbles.

Yes, these young 21st century hippies were tripping balls.

I could scarcely hide my delight, and before long they spotted me not-so-discretely staring at them and pranced over to us.

"New friends!"  They cried, in a state of precarious acid-induced unbalance.

"Will you be our friends? Please be our friends."

"Would you like a cat nose?"  They thrust the Sharpee towards our face.  We kindly declined out of prudence, not lack of desire.

"Smell our bubbles!  They smell like vanilla ice cream!"  They blew the bubbles in our face and I giggled, and they giggled, and Abby Autin began to freak out a little.  She was uncomfortable, and it was time to go.  If I stayed I was going to join these girls in a state of revelry here under this spider and I was going to loose myself in celebration of a lost time that could never have existed as I picture it in my mind, regardless of what they want you to believe.

Before we left they gave me a daisy chain.  They tried to tie it around my wrist, but they couldn't.  They could hardly function at all.  I guess it's the price we pay.  I tied it for them.  

Oh friends, I felt so much delight due to this encounter with these girls.  Their heedless, joyful, "all you need is love"  attitude lifted my heart and my spirits for one fleeting, bittersweet moment.  Once it was done, I felt the same way I do when I hear the soundtrack to Yellow Submarine, or see photos from Woodstock or read Hunter S. Thompson's musings on the late 60s.  

To much unabashed, unrestrained joy can't survive in the real world.  It's either destroyed by outside forces that sanitize it because it horrifies them, or it implodes upon itself.  Either way, the status quo never changes.

Outside the statue garden, still a little dazed, Abby Autin and I were admiring a magnolia tree and were almost struck by an SUV with Texas plates.  It honked at us.  Back in 2008, we crossed a bridge on the way to the car and I took off the daisy chain and dropped it into the water.  It floated away.

But for a moment, on a beautiful spring day in New Orleans, Louisiana,  underneath a giant spider, entranced in bohemian camaraderie, I truly believed that love is all you need.

Apalling Behavior

Sometimes I am visited by the bad idea bears.  They come skipping inside, and say things like "Hello Joshua!  Why don't you make ridiculous decisions and behave like a complete jack ass?"  I shrug, and say "Well, alright.  Let's go."  And then, all hell breaks loose.  I stumble into work in pitiful shape, if I bother to show up at all.  I wake up three days later with a hangover that makes me feel like a dead opossum.

Witness the progression of my shenanigans:

Abby and D. at the French Quarter Festival, probably around 6pm.

Abby and D at Lafitte's in Exile, probably around 9pm.  

Oh yeah.  We had work tomorrow.  But they had the good sense to leave.  Not me. 

I stayed.  And wound up wandering down Airline Highway at 6:30am, after gnawing off my arm to escape the the clutches of a bad decision.  Have you ever snuck out of someone's house as the sun was rising on a Monday, only to find yourself in a nondescript suburb with no real idea how to get back to where it is appropriate for you to be?  Luckily, I wandered into a gas station and they were kind enough to call me a taxi.

Or, we could consider Friday night, where I hung out at Ohm for, oh, the entire goddamn night drinking an unacceptable amount of vodka and doing coke in the upstairs bathroom.  Oh yeah, I had work the next day.  I showed up 45 minutes late on Saturday in the clothes from the night before, and left an hour early.  Out of three scheduled hours, I got an hour and fifteen minutes on the clock.  After sobering up on Monday, I bought everyone breakfast.  God knows, it was the least I could do.

Next time I see the bad idea bears, I'm going to slit their furry little throats.