Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Tearing south Louisiana a new one
I started writing this the night after Steve and Brett left and actually fell asleep typing I was so out of it from a three-day bender that ended in a ratty gay-themed hotel in New Orleans. So this is a few days old, but I'll just pick up from where I passed out and leave the rest as is:
From the night of Wednesday, Jan. 21:
It's 11:30 p.m. and I'm sitting in my comfy chair, feet up on the ottoman, curled up in a blanket drinking Gatorade and still nursing a hangover from the past three days. The reason? As I alluded to in the last post, my degenerate friends, Brett and Steve, flew down Sunday for three days of good, clean south Louisiana fun.
As I mentioned before, they missed their original flight because Steve couldn't get Brett's drunk ass out of bed in the morning. Instead of 3:30 p.m. I picked them up at 8 p.m. and with the extra time I got creative. I went to Albertson's, bought a large, bright pink piece of posterboard and a Sharpie. As they came down the crowded escalator of Baton Rouge airport, surrounded by people from their nearly full flight, I greeted my friends, who have used a fictitious domestic partnership to secure airfare deals, by waving a pink sign that read, "Congratulations on Your Civil Union Brett and Steve" with the obligatory hand scrawled hearts. If I haven't mentioned it before, BR ain't the most gay-friendly of places. I guess the short version of that is that I am very funny. Moving on...
We spent the Sunday night alienating my co-workers by loudly telling apalling stories involving multiple bodily functions and Ryan the Drunken Effeminate Mexican. As it was the Lord's day and we respect the Lord in Louisiana, no bars were open Sunday so the night kind of petered out early.
The next morning I took Brett and Steve out for some authentic southern breakfast at Louie's. We went to a place where they serve omelettes with hash browns cooked into them. After securing our future coronaries at Louie's it was off to Alligator Bayou to show Brett and Steve some authentic wild gators. Sadly, I did not take into account the whole hibernation thing and consequently the only gator we saw was the 10-foot tall statue wearing a hat and a grin that marked the entrance of Alligator Bayou. (this is where I passed out)
That night I decided to show my friends a good time in downtown Baton Rouge (contrary to popular belief, it can be done). I had grand visions of hitting every bar downtown, but we ended up closing the second bar we went to. The night consisted mostly of drinking on the cheap, naturally, but then this local artist walked into the Red Star bar. I'm not a huge fan of this guy due to a previous encounter at the Red Star in which he acted like a real self-righteous douche bag and basically informed me that I, as a crime reporter, was singlehandedly bringing down the downtrodden of the world.
Because of this, his occupation and his stupid thumbnail dreads I now refer to him as Basquiat (who he actually bears a fair resemblance to). Well, Steve picked up on this and started loudly deriding "that Basquiat-looking motherfucker" until we all felt it was time to move on the next, Basquiat-free bar.
Well, we continued like that through the rest of the night until we ended up at my buddy Ryan's house. There it was me, Brett, Steve, Ryan and an LSU grad student. In the 20 minutes that Ryan and I were gone getting Jack in the Box, Steve started hooking up with the grad student with no apparent concern for Brett's presence. God only knows how we managed to find my apartment that night, but we did and the next day it was on to New Orleans.
As we drove down I-10 the three fifty-foot crosses that greet you on your way in and out of Baton Rouge were like wagging fingers warning us about the sinful night we were about to have in The Big Easy. We ignored them.
At a classy Creole dinner, we were still badly hungover from the night before and, as we got our beers, Steve had the line of the night. He picked up his bottle, inspected it and, in complete deadpan, said, "Oh, it's you again." After that, the night quickly descended into oblivion. The progression of our drinks is reflective of the night. We started out drinking $5 gin and tonics at the hip John Lafitte's (the oldest bar in New Orleans, dating from 1730) and ended up drinking $2 Miller Lite out of 32 oz cups on Bourbon Street.
At the beginning of the night we walked under the prominently displayed rainbow flag to check into our ratty, $35 a night hotel located near the French Quarter in the heart of the ghetto. We were the only straight people there but we could have fooled them, packing three of us into a single.
Due to the smallness of the bed we made a deal: first one to puke gets the bed. It was kind of half-joking, but I won.
I had planned to keep us off Bourbon Street as much as possible but I failed, and we went to one neon-lit tourist trap after another - and had a blast. We drank, danced, appalled a contingent of Swedish tourists, fought off hookers, declined to buy drugs from several bar patrons - a complete New Orleans experience.
Then, I think I bottomed out: just after a shot of honey Jaggermeister (disgusting) which followed a shot of regular Jaggermeister and God knows how many other drinks, I found myself puking into a pile of garbage bags on Bourbon street while a giggling Steve snapped a picture with his disposable camera. Yikes.
And we ended the night in a strip club (as far as I can remember).
If you've made it all the way you have won two prizes: a full, detailed update on the Druz and security in the knowledge that your drinking problem is nothing.
From the night of Wednesday, Jan. 21:
It's 11:30 p.m. and I'm sitting in my comfy chair, feet up on the ottoman, curled up in a blanket drinking Gatorade and still nursing a hangover from the past three days. The reason? As I alluded to in the last post, my degenerate friends, Brett and Steve, flew down Sunday for three days of good, clean south Louisiana fun.
As I mentioned before, they missed their original flight because Steve couldn't get Brett's drunk ass out of bed in the morning. Instead of 3:30 p.m. I picked them up at 8 p.m. and with the extra time I got creative. I went to Albertson's, bought a large, bright pink piece of posterboard and a Sharpie. As they came down the crowded escalator of Baton Rouge airport, surrounded by people from their nearly full flight, I greeted my friends, who have used a fictitious domestic partnership to secure airfare deals, by waving a pink sign that read, "Congratulations on Your Civil Union Brett and Steve" with the obligatory hand scrawled hearts. If I haven't mentioned it before, BR ain't the most gay-friendly of places. I guess the short version of that is that I am very funny. Moving on...
We spent the Sunday night alienating my co-workers by loudly telling apalling stories involving multiple bodily functions and Ryan the Drunken Effeminate Mexican. As it was the Lord's day and we respect the Lord in Louisiana, no bars were open Sunday so the night kind of petered out early.
The next morning I took Brett and Steve out for some authentic southern breakfast at Louie's. We went to a place where they serve omelettes with hash browns cooked into them. After securing our future coronaries at Louie's it was off to Alligator Bayou to show Brett and Steve some authentic wild gators. Sadly, I did not take into account the whole hibernation thing and consequently the only gator we saw was the 10-foot tall statue wearing a hat and a grin that marked the entrance of Alligator Bayou. (this is where I passed out)
That night I decided to show my friends a good time in downtown Baton Rouge (contrary to popular belief, it can be done). I had grand visions of hitting every bar downtown, but we ended up closing the second bar we went to. The night consisted mostly of drinking on the cheap, naturally, but then this local artist walked into the Red Star bar. I'm not a huge fan of this guy due to a previous encounter at the Red Star in which he acted like a real self-righteous douche bag and basically informed me that I, as a crime reporter, was singlehandedly bringing down the downtrodden of the world.
Because of this, his occupation and his stupid thumbnail dreads I now refer to him as Basquiat (who he actually bears a fair resemblance to). Well, Steve picked up on this and started loudly deriding "that Basquiat-looking motherfucker" until we all felt it was time to move on the next, Basquiat-free bar.
Well, we continued like that through the rest of the night until we ended up at my buddy Ryan's house. There it was me, Brett, Steve, Ryan and an LSU grad student. In the 20 minutes that Ryan and I were gone getting Jack in the Box, Steve started hooking up with the grad student with no apparent concern for Brett's presence. God only knows how we managed to find my apartment that night, but we did and the next day it was on to New Orleans.
As we drove down I-10 the three fifty-foot crosses that greet you on your way in and out of Baton Rouge were like wagging fingers warning us about the sinful night we were about to have in The Big Easy. We ignored them.
At a classy Creole dinner, we were still badly hungover from the night before and, as we got our beers, Steve had the line of the night. He picked up his bottle, inspected it and, in complete deadpan, said, "Oh, it's you again." After that, the night quickly descended into oblivion. The progression of our drinks is reflective of the night. We started out drinking $5 gin and tonics at the hip John Lafitte's (the oldest bar in New Orleans, dating from 1730) and ended up drinking $2 Miller Lite out of 32 oz cups on Bourbon Street.
At the beginning of the night we walked under the prominently displayed rainbow flag to check into our ratty, $35 a night hotel located near the French Quarter in the heart of the ghetto. We were the only straight people there but we could have fooled them, packing three of us into a single.
Due to the smallness of the bed we made a deal: first one to puke gets the bed. It was kind of half-joking, but I won.
I had planned to keep us off Bourbon Street as much as possible but I failed, and we went to one neon-lit tourist trap after another - and had a blast. We drank, danced, appalled a contingent of Swedish tourists, fought off hookers, declined to buy drugs from several bar patrons - a complete New Orleans experience.
Then, I think I bottomed out: just after a shot of honey Jaggermeister (disgusting) which followed a shot of regular Jaggermeister and God knows how many other drinks, I found myself puking into a pile of garbage bags on Bourbon street while a giggling Steve snapped a picture with his disposable camera. Yikes.
And we ended the night in a strip club (as far as I can remember).
If you've made it all the way you have won two prizes: a full, detailed update on the Druz and security in the knowledge that your drinking problem is nothing.
