The Sunshine State [Day 2]

Friday, May 26

I awoke in a panic, as I wandered from room to room in the dark, looking for a bathroom. I opened a door and found a closet. Behind another door and I found Dupa snoring in his bed. After what felt like hours, I realized I was in our condo. In Florida. And I was really, really hungover.

Lucidity was slowly reacquainting itself with me. I was missing my left sock. A wad of ones sat on my dresser. I vaguely remembered vomiting in a parking lot. I made a mental note to check my shoes and shorts later for collateral damage. [Note: Not a spot on them! It’s almost as if I’ve done this before.]

I felt a tinge of embarrassment. Any guy does when he’s thrown up in front of his buddies. When you’re that guy, you feel like you’ve let everyone down. I found the bathroom, flipped up the seat, and as I pissed I realized that there were flecks of something all around the bowl.

“Dupa hurled, too.” Then my struggling brain fully processed this information. “I’m not the only one.” A sizeable grin spread across my face as I washed my hands and hobbled back to bed.

A couple of hours later, I was still the only one in the condo awake. I’d showered and shaved before Dupa shuffled into the living room, plopped down in the leather armchair, and joined me in watching tv.

Me: “Did you vomit last night?”
Dupa: “I’ll clean it up.”
Me: “I did too, in the parking lot outside the strip club.”
Dupa: “Ha! I didn’t even make it inside. As soon as I got out of the Uber I ordered one of my own.”

The same driver who had dropped us off had taken the request, and swung back around to pick him up. Then he had to talk to Dupa the whole way to the condo to keep my Polish comrade from throwing up right there in the car.

We’re both adults, by the way.

Ton had texted me around 9 a.m. to ask if we wanted to go fishing with the rest of the boys. It took me until 12:30 to respond, but I’d wager he knew my answer well before that. It hardly mattered anyways, since their fishing boat encountered engine trouble shortly into the trip, and they had to head back for land. A Snapchat video of Ton, TK, Balls, and Tiger Blood smiling and partying as the boat charged out into the Gulf was immediately followed by a subdued one of them puttering back shortly thereafter.

About an hour later Dupa and I were meeting up with the guys at Bubba Gump’s. Just being out in the sunshine on a deck overlooking the bay was doing wonders for me. I couldn’t say the same for TK, who sat opposite me at the table, looking shell-shocked. Our waitress, upon first seating him, had unabashedly commented, “You look terrible.” It was an astute observation.

Hemsworth, for the record, hadn’t even made it out of his hotel bed. When Ton texted him about lunch, his full response was, “No.”

Catching up on how everyone else’s night had ended was a therapy session in and of itself.

• TK gave the full account of making it rain:
  
  Tiger Blood handed him $100 in ones and they walked over to the edge of a stage. He then told the dancer to spin on the pole.
  
  Dancer: “No.”
  Tiger Blood: “I’m paying you money. Get on the pole so we can make it rain on you.”
  Dancer: “No.”
  Tiger Blood: *to TK* “Fuck this bitch, we’re not giving her shit. We’ll spend our money on the next dancer. *a moment passes* Fuck it. *tosses dollars in the air and walks away*”
  
  
• Ton, meanwhile, had a different kind of difficulty with a woman.
  
  Me: “Did I imagine it, or was Mrs. Ton there?”
  Ton: “She was there. I didn’t want her to come out, because I knew we’d end up getting into a fight. And I was right.”
  
  
• Tiger Blood called an escort service when he got back to his hotel room. But he got tired of trying to negotiate a reasonable price, so he gave up on it and went to bed.
  
  

We inhaled tall drinks, fried seafood platters, sandwiches, and burgers. Dupa and I had arrived later, and our food orders were about 10 minutes behind everyone else’s. I claimed Ton’s burger for myself as it was delivered to the table, without a second thought or a shred of a fuck given. Bachelor party hangovers are an every-man-for-himself blood sport.

After lunch Tiger Blood and I were talking to a cashier and the manager. When we told them that we’d been out for our friend’s bachelor party the prior night, the manager said, “Ah, so you guys went hard last night.” Then, pointing at me, she added, “I can tell.”

Still, we were the only two interested in doing a bit more day drinking, and we walked to Hooters for a beer […and maybe in futile hopes of running into Svana again]. The groom, Ton, and Balls left to prepare for the rehearsal dinner. Dupa went back to the condo to sleep more.

He awoke a couple of hours later, ambling out to the living room to find me watching River Monsters. Our friend Shafe arrived in town and had immediately begun texting Dupa, who told him we’d meet him at the bar in 30 minutes. Two hours later we strolled into The Hut Bar and Grill, and found Shafe pounding Bud Heavies with a chip on his shoulder.

The Hut was my kind of place. Right on the water, live music, an engaging bartender, and hard-hitting Hurricanes. I put back four with dinner, while Dupa did five and a LandShark, and Shafe drained Bud bottles like an ancient Aztec priest performing sacrifices on the steps of a temple. In other words, things were just like you’d expect them to be.

When the rehearsal dinner ended, the participants headed for Daiquiri Shak and instructed us to do the same. When we got there, we found them to have largely taken over the deck in front of the building. We grabbed seats at a nearby table, ordered ourselves beers, and jumped right into the flow. And I got some face time with my favorite University of Alabama alum (sorry Amari, you’ll have to settle for second).

Tide was tipsy, and had the look of a woman both relieved everything was finally happening and stressed that it wasn’t all over yet. Still, relief seemed to be her dominating emotion, as she kicked back with some beers and entertained us. Inevitably, she delivered the quote of the night.

Tide: “I told my mom, ‘I can’t wait to finally have sex!’ She rolled her eyes and said, ‘Oh shut up.’ I have a past life; I used to be a bit of a hoe…”

A random local from a table near ours made her presence known. Blonde, 40+, and wearing her standard-issue Florida jorts, she jumped up and did her best embarrassing-aunt-at-the-family-picnic dance. Not the least bit apologetic, she explained to us, “It’s Friday. You’ve gotta let loose!”

My immediate reaction was, “She’s the female version of Dupa.” I can’t honestly remember if I was the first one of us to say it, though, because Mrs. Ton and Tide both made the same observation. We may have all said it simultaneously. Dupa saw it too. He stared in awe, occasionally putting the corner of his phone in his mouth for lack of a verbal reaction. I know the man well, and those are the telltale signs of him being flummoxed.

Our group was soon joined by four of the girls from the bachelorette party we’d met at CJ’s the night prior. Balls had made a connection with one of the bridesmaids, and invited her and her friends to come hang. It occurred to me for the first time that they were all blonde. And hot. And, as often happens when you have four beautiful young blondes at your table, we suddenly had a douchey pest hovering around us.

Looking like the least popular member of a boy band [“JC Nahsez?” “FuckBoy?” Yeah, let’s go with FuckBoy.], he interjected himself into our consciousness by making an unsolicited response to one of our comments. As we paused to ask ourselves “Who the fuck is this guy?” he zeroed in on the blondes, grabbing a chair and pulling it over close to two of them.

We shrugged off the intrusion, figuring he was the girls’ burden to bear. But when he disappeared for a moment, we asked them what his deal was. “I don’t know,” one of them said. “He’s annoying.” When he came back around, the ladies gave him a cold shoulder. He tried to save face by buddying up to my boy Billy, who in turn told him, “You should probably just walk away.” FuckBoy reluctantly accepted his fate, and extended his hand in my direction, looking for a handshake. I just stared at him.

FuckBoy: “You’re not going to shake my hand?”
Me: “Nah.”

I think he yelled “fuck you” or something as he walked away, I don’t know. He didn’t matter.

We resumed our various conversations and drinking. With the next day being a big one, though, most of us started clearing out around 1 a.m. I was one of them, strolling off down the street—our condo was only a block away. And I hummed a tune as I did.

After all, it was Friday. You’ve gotta let loose.

Wherever I May Reauxm (Part 2)

[Continued from Part 1]

A blaring alarm woke me.

…Well, “woke” is a bit of a misleading term. One eye opened. There’s no sure way of knowing the exact number, of course, but I’d estimate about 5% of my remaining brain cells were firing in that moment. They were merely there to record data, as well as to operate my essential organs and one eyelid. The rest—who do all of the deduction and reasoning, and who operate every other movable part of my body—were still slumbering. Or worse.

So a blaring alarm elicited the bare minimum response from me. The clock said “7:45.” “There’s no way in hell he’s getting up,” a brain cell muttered. One of T.C.’s arms swung from his bed, and a big Irish hand crashed into the clock. The sound stopped. The army of 5% lowered my eyelid. 15 minutes later the sound rang out again. My eyelids stayed shut, but this time I heard T.C. actually get out of bed. A muffled “No shit?” came from behind the closed lid.

He dressed and headed off to work-related doings. A few hours later, I also found my way from bed to shower. By about the time I’d gotten dressed and felt ready to head out into this enchanted land, T.C. came back. “I’m hurtin’,” was about all he got out before he’d crawled back into bed.

I started my exploration of this vast and diverse city…by crossing the street and walking into Walgreens. My first open container of the day was going to be a bottle of Gatorade.

I strolled up Dauphine to Poydras. I hooked a right and went as far as Loyola, before turning right again. At Canal I went right and closed the loop, then marched on towards the riverfront. There I found myself a Hurricane shack next to Poppy’s, where a middle-aged white woman stood bullshitting with the guy behind the counter. It was time to up my open container game.

Me: “Can I get a Hurricane?”
Bartender: “What size?”
Woman: “Gotta go with a large!”
Me: “Then I’ll have a large! I ain’t working today!”
Woman: “Exactly!”

Unlike the Hurricanes that Creole Shawty mixed up the night before, this one was delicious. I snapped a picture of the drink in my hand, sparkling in the sunlight, and texted it to T.C. as a status update.

To hold a plastic cup in New Orleans is to hold a key to the kingdom of heaven. I stopped at the riverwalk’s edge and gazed out on the Mississippi. The warm bayou air slung an arm over my shoulders, and tapped its cup against mine. The smile on my face felt like it was years in the making.

I would walk back out to Poydras, down Fulton Street and on through the CBD. I circled back to the outlet mall on the waterfront, got myself a burger, and waited for T.C., who had responded to my Hurricane picture 45 minutes later with, “That a boy. Just woke up.”

My compatriot arrived, got himself a burger and sat down at the next food court table. In the subdued tones of men tending to wounds between battles, we compared notes on the night before.

T.C.: “When did we go to the strip club?”
Me: “I didn’t go to a strip club.”
T.C.: “Huh. Well, I have an ATM receipt from Centerfolds…”

Me: “I feel like I tried to kiss a shot girl.”
T.C.: “Oh, you didn’t just ‘try’…”

We grabbed frozen Hurricanes from the Fat Tuesday counter, and headed back to the hotel. New Orleans bustles with activity at every turn and sinew. Even when you happen upon a seemingly empty backstreet or courtyard, a frenetic energy fills the air. It’s like being surrounded by ghosts. And each of them has a to-go cup.

At the hotel we showered up and got ready for the night ahead. These three days were a work event for T.C.; he still had to schmooze customers and network with his fellow salesmen. And conferences always have a big reception on the second night, where a lot of schmoozing and networking goes down. I am not a salesman—neither in T.C.’s industry, nor in any other industry. So you can understand my concerns, as we strolled through the Ritz Carlton’s lobby towards a ballroom with moneyed people walking in and out of it.

Me: “What if someone asks me a question about medical equipment?”
T.C.: “Just make up some bullshit.”

Umm… Sure.

Luckily, this nuanced, well-thought-out contingency plan never had to be set in motion, as we avoided getting involved in chitchat with anyone but ourselves. Hey, at least we were guaranteed good conversation.

When we first entered the room, a half-naked white woman stood near the entrance with a large boa constrictor draped over her shoulders. After a moment of wondering which one of them I wanted to pet more, I noticed the wooden masks and ambient lighting. They were playing off the Creole voodoo history of New Orleans—using a white woman as the priestess. *sigh* I took a swig of my Abita and shook my head, knowing I was probably the only one in the room who saw something wrong with this.

Mercifully we hit the exit after one beer a piece. The thick, humid air outside was a welcomed reminder of where I was, as I rolled up the sleeves of my white dress shirt. While we navigated the streets of the French Quarter, I told T.C. that I needed to go easier than I had the night before. No blacking out, no sexually harassing shot girls. Just take it easy. He didn’t dispute my assessment.

We aimed ourselves in the direction of the Hotel Monteleone.

The Monteleone’s Carousel Bar had been on my bucket list for years. It houses a real carousel, with a bar top and seats that slowly circle the bar in the center, approximately one rotation every 15 minutes. Every booze aficionado who has walked through NOLA in the past 20 years has found himself or herself seated at the revolving bar at some point in time. March 4, 2015 was my point in time. We got ourselves a couple of open seats, and I ordered up a Vieux Carre [I should have practiced more; in my excitement I pronounced it “Voo-Ka-Roh”]. It tasted like jazz on my lips.

When I reached the end of my glass (in about two rotations), I asked the bartender I was gently orbiting to make me a drink of his choosing, so long as it was made with bourbon. He hit me with a…well, I didn’t catch the name of the drink. It might’ve been a Kentucky Maid. All I know for sure is that it had bourbon and a hint of cucumber, and that it was magnificent. When they cremate my body, sprinkle some of the ashes at the Carousel Bar.

When we finally pried ourselves from the Merry-Go-Buy-A-Round, we addled across the street towards Mr. B’s, on a wing and a prayer that they had an opening. By the grace of god—the god of barbecued shrimp—there were two spots open at the bar. We moved into our new homes, tucking napkins into our collars and ordering up some libations. A Macallan’s 12 for me, please.

T.C.: “I love that you're talking about slowing down tonight, and then you order a scotch.”

We got to know our new neighbors. T.C.’s was a cute brunette with a pixie cut—who he swore was giving him the “fuck me” eyes—and two younger guys. My half of the homestead bordered the property of a feisty little blonde woman in her early 50s named Roma, and two businessmen around her age who she was schooling on Louisiana. As I began peeling apart my shrimp, she turned and threw the decades of bayou-bred charm my way.

Roma was everything I want my future wife to be when I’m she’s that old [let’s face it, I’m marrying someone younger than me never marrying]: funny, engaging, and loved LSU football like I loved the Macallan in my hand. And 20 years ago she would’ve had any guy in there fighting to get her back to his hotel room. Hell, a couple more glasses of Macallan and I would’ve considered it that night.

After a dinner where I miraculously came away without any major barbecue stains on my all-white shirt, we set out to find the places we’d missed along Bourbon St. the night before. We stopped in BeerFest for some good beer. We stopped in Bourbon Bandstand, and hung out on its balcony; I can now say I’ve seen boobs flashed on Bourbon Street (I was crossing off bucket list items left and right). And then we stopped in a place whose name I remember, but will never utter on this page, because I’m not into giving free publicity to douchebags.

We had been at the well-under-capacity bar long enough to order ourselves a couple of beers. It wasn’t much longer before a guy in glasses walked over to us and asked us to step to the side. We complied, and after complying I casually asked why he had wanted us to move. “Because I’m the owner, and I’m telling you to,” was the response I got. Uhh…okay.

Me: “I was just asking.”
Douche: “You’re out of here!”

He then called over the bouncers to remove us. T.C. asked one of them what we’d done. The muscled henchman shrugged his shoulders in the manner of a good person who has to rely on a waste of human life for a paycheck. By all accounts, we were in the right. But the walking inadequacy complex owned the place, and wielded that power with impunity.

I’ve been kicked out of many a bar in my lifetime, in cities all across this fine nation. And even when I’ve been innocent, I’ve been able to point to some action by either me or one of my friends as the turning point. Never once, before that night, had I been booted for absolutely no reason whatsoever. I didn’t act unruly. I wasn’t debilitatingly drunk. I didn’t even mouth off to the toilet stain. But apparently he doesn’t like making money by serving alcohol to people who ask him benign questions. Not the best business strategy, but hey…*shrug* Douchebags gonna douchebag. Those bouncers better find new paychecks, fast.

The beauty of being ostracized from a bar on Bourbon, though, is you know you have another 100 shots at it before you’re going to go thirsty. We walked a couple of doors down, and I moved myself towards brownout.

…Did I mention I was going to slow down?

The next thing I remember clearly, we were standing at a hot dog cart. And I was taking a bite out of my hot dog. And mustard from my hot dog was splattering all over my white dress shirt.

Bourbon Street’d.

T.C. found this situation hilarious. It’s not often we disagree. He wandered off towards another bar, but I ran back to the hotel room for a wardrobe change.

When I returned in a new shirt, I found that my friend had made new friends. One was shorter, with shoulder-length hair and a face that reminded me of cigarettes. She wore a tank top and jean shorts. The other was taller and prettier, with long hair and eyes that reminded me of daddy issues. She wore a shirt tied into a knot in the front and an emotionally defensive glare. T.C., meanwhile, wore a sloppy, oblivious grin.

After a couple of bars, I was already tired of the off-duty strippers that T.C. didn’t even realize were off-duty strippers. I’m not sure if he even realized they were there—he probably still doesn’t. To be honest, I’m not entirely certain they weren’t just a figment of my drunken imagination. Or that they weren’t just NOLA ghosts.

*thinking* They might’ve been ghosts…

I abandoned the scene, and sought out Erin Rose on Conti Street. My stepbrother (Step Bro) is a NOLA vet, and had recommended it to me. The man was right. Erin Rose is a drinker’s bar, with all of the energy and none of the schlock of Bourbon Street.

But I was a man without a country, and too drunk to create new friends from strangers. I stumbled off toward the hotel. When I hit Bourbon, I ran into a solo T.C.; I guess he finally realized those two chicks at the bar were actually with him. We chuckled at this magical world called New Orleans, and found our way back to the sanity of our hotel beds.

[To be continued...]

Wherever I May Reauxm (Part 1)

It took roughly 54 hours before I sipped alcohol again. Keep in mind, I wasn’t hungover that entire time. Sure, I dueled with the common withdrawal symptom of good ol’ incontinence early Friday evening, but I had quickly shaken the beast. And I wasn’t really concerned for my long-term health. (Well, no more than usual. I mean, come on…) Certainly, I had not been lacking options. Swag invited me to a bar crawl in the South Side (St. Practice Day) on Saturday, and I always keep a modest-but-well-stocked liquor cabinet at home.

So what was it? What made me stay home and dry through an entire weekend, drinking nothing but Gatorade, ginger ale, or juice when I felt an urge to wet my whistle?

Alcohol felt boring.

This is what they don’t tell you about going to New Orleans.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Let’s rewind to a Thursday morning in mid-February. As I hurried through my office building’s garage, running late for work yet again, my phone buzzed. It was T.C.



I’ve dreamed about visiting New Orleans for most of my adult life. Its vibrant culture, historic streets, iconic bars, and world famous food have called to me through TV screens and magazine pages. The city is booze, culture, parties, food, and music—basically, everything I love—rolled into one chill, unassuming package. NOLA has long been the girl-next-door pinup model in posters hanging on the walls of my mind.

My flight landed late in the afternoon on March 3rd, and like a good 35-year-old son I called my mom from the cab to let her know I’d arrived safely. “And now you’re going to go drink,” she said in a slightly disappointed tone.

“I mean, first I’m going to get cleaned up, but…”

When I got to the room, T.C. was at a work function. I hopped in the shower and washed public air travel off me [no trip has ever fortified my desire to become private-plane-rich more], and was dressed by the time my homie walked through the door carrying two beers.

Our immediate concern was dinner. One of our friends had suggested Mr. B’s Bistro, and its outstanding barbecued shrimp. Expecting it to be a hurricane shack—or a Hurricane shack—we strolled over for a bite. We were instead greeted by a classy five-star restaurant that was filled to the fire code with guests. The bar seating was also full, and the earliest dinner reservation we could get was for 8:30 pm the next night.

“So that’s a ‘no’ on the barbecued shrimp…” Plan B was to find something on Bourbon St. Not bad, as far as Plan B’s go.

In 2015, it’s not only cliché to say there’s a magical feel to a night in New Orleans, it’s cliché to say that it’s cliché to say there’s a magical feel to a night in New Orleans. And it’s easy to be reductive, and assume the “magic” people feel—that I felt, as I strolled towards the shiny street sign that read “Bourbon”—comes from the more lascivious features of Bourbon Street. Yes, getting drunk and seeing boobs both make me happy (…I think this is well documented). But they don’t cause the magic; they’re an effect of it. As you pass the policemen and sawhorses that turn it from street to playground, your mind dances. The air is light. Every face has a smile. Music is playing. There’s laughter. There’s energy. There’s the moment. It’s everything.

I pulled myself back into consciousness, as we had a dining decision to make. A very scientific and well thought out decision, it involved us strolling past Pier 424 Seafood Market and saying to each other, “This sound good to you?”

We settled in and ordered ourselves some eats—including fried alligator—and some drinks. T.C. called for an IPA, while I chose a house concoction that came in a sling glass and tasted like candy. A poor choice, sure, but at least it had Jim Beam in it. Needing my machismo reaffirmed, I was already plotting out a new drink order when T.C. asked the bartender to bring him something “New Orleans” that had whiskey in it. Barkeep, make that two. We soon had two Sazeracs sitting in front of us.

Laissez les bons temps rouler.

As I finished my shrimp po-boy, T.C. threw his corporate card on the bar and simultaneously ordered a rum & Coke for the road. The man’s a born leader. I fell in line, adding a Makers & Coke (to go) to the final tally, and we were soon back in the warm night air of the French Quarter with cold plastic cups in our hands.

We happened upon Spirits on Bourbon. T.C., a Bar Rescue fan, recognized it immediately. In we went. I haven’t watched much of the show, but I’d assumed the successful business strategy that Jon Taffer imparted to each bar owner was something more shrewd and insightful than “Just talk about how you were on this show once.” TV screens around the room play a 30-second promo clip of the episode on an endless loop. Bar Rescue-themed t-shirts hang behind the bar for sale, along with mugs and other trinkets. Signs saying “As Seen on TV” adorn the taps. It reminds you of that guy who constantly talks about that one touchdown he scored in high school.

The good news: That annoying self-promotion is only born from insecurity, and isn’t a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. Spirits is actually a really good bar, with cool staff and a nice vibe. They just need to learn how to be comfortable in their own skin (that is to say, as a bar they need to learn; the beautiful blonde bartender with the low-cut top straining to hold back her blessings is quite—and well-deservingly—comfortable in her own skin). Act like you belong, and people will think you belong. And Spirits belongs.

After a couple of draughts and the piano player tickling “Home Sweet Home” out of the ivories at T.C.’s request, we strolled out in search of the next bar. Maison Bourbon caught our attention, with a big raucous brass band hammering away inside. What better place for a couple of Miller Lites? Unfortunately, the band was going on break right as we arrived. So after one beer, we were off into the night once more.

The next establishment—or, rather, the next I remember visiting—was Tropical Isle.

Now, if you don’t know much about New Orleans, you’ve probably never heard of this fine NOLA institution. Hell, I hadn’t, and I was infatuated with the town. But, it’s quite likely that you’ve heard of another NOLA institution, that being the beloved Hand Grenade. Well Tropical Isle is the home of the Hand Grenade. “And if anyone tries to tell you differently,” the bartender said, “Tell us. We’ll sue ‘em.”

*sips the delicious nectar*

You got it. Fuck ‘em.

I’m fairly certain the Hand Grenade (and the draught) that I drank at Tropical Isle were my kill shot. Not to get ahead of myself, but the night gets a lot dimmer after that stop. But while we were safely within their walls, the world was bright and colorful.

That included the band on the stage that was rocking the house down. They were even better when you consider that the lead singer was an overweight, middle-aged white woman. Which led to this gem from T.C.: “Is that lead singer from Monessen?” [Okay, you probably have to be from Pittsburgh to get it. If you’re not, just picture a hillside white trash community. Or, you know, just move on. But damn it if it wasn’t funny as hell in the moment.]

The next stop was…uh…well…I have no clue. It was dark. The bartender at the back bar was a very cute, light-skinned (possibly Creole?) girl, who served us beers and said a bunch of words that the in-house band, my overwhelmed consciousness, and time conspired to keep me from remembering.

Wanting to switch up from beer, we asked her to make us another Nawlins tradition: Hurricanes. …Not a wise decision. We quickly realized that Creole Shawty wasn’t manning the Tuesday night shift because of her mixology excellence. Her Hurricane was three parts rum, two parts juice, and five parts lighter fluid. We winced as we tried to work our way through them, before T.C. made an executive decision to toss them when she wasn’t looking. Back out into the night we went.

By now, I was on my feet, but I was off my ass. The five hours I’d spent on Bourbon Street had cornered my consciousness in the prison shower, and were going to town. Innocence had surely been lost. I remember T.C. and I being in another dark, sparsely-populated bar, talking to two hot shot girls. I remember the one trying to sell shots to me, and I remember buying on the condition that I get a kiss along with it. That’s right: I had gone full Namath.

Around 1:30, I stumbled down Bourbon and back to the hotel, realizing as I got off the elevator—on what I hoped was the correct floor—that I’d left T.C. behind. I texted my apologies, found the room, and fell on my bed.

Bourbon Street’d.

[To be continued...]

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler!

To all my alkie peoples on Bourbon St. today: get right, and have several for me. Yet another Mardi Gras has come and found me stationed hundreds of miles away from New Orleans. The only thing I can take solace in is that the closest thing Pittsburgh has to Fat Tuesday, our St. Patty's Day Parade, is coming up this Saturday. We have just as much booze, beads, and buffoonery; but, at 50°F, there's a lot less bare boobage (and that's really the best of the "B's").

Maybe next year I'll get to dance on Bourbon St. with a Hurricane in my hand and a cutie like the one below on my hip? A man can only dream. Again and again and again.