Monday, February 23, 2004
More Mardi Gras
Saturday was Spanish Town Mardi Gras. I know I've explained this before, but bear with me as I briefly explain it again. Spanish Town Mardi Gras is a great fucking party. The neighborhood is small, probably 5 blocks by 5 blocks at the most, but more than 100,000 people jammed the streets for this parade/booze-fest. And it was awesome. There were so many obscene costumes, I was very proud of our little hedonist enclave in the heart of conservative Puritan country.
I rolled out of bed at about 8:30 and by 9 a.m. I was dressed for the occasion (one more reminder: our neighborhood color is pink, our symbol, the noble flamingo): I had soccer shorts with a two-tone square pattern shades of pink and orange I didn't think existed. On top I had a bright pink shirt with silver trim and my t-shirt was bright yellow. To top it off I wore pink sunglasses and bright pink floral shoes with flamingo print socks.
I left my house dressed like this with hammer and sickle flask (compliments of Matt and from the former Soviet Union) and a cold beer in my hand. As my good friend, the gay, Republican, editorial writer put it: "Youre the gayest straight guy in Spanish Town." And, you know what? That's fucking right. Bay Area represent.
I started pulling off my flask filled with straight vodka at 9 a.m. and didn't stop until midnight. It was beautiful. We just went house to house in the beautiful south Lousiana 70 degree February weather drinking, eating and frightening children.
Later on in the night things get fuzzy. I apparently punched a guy in the head after I warned him not to touch my ass again, but otherwise things went smoothly. All I really remember is eating a lot of jumbalaya, getting a lot of beads and drinking on my friend's porch.
The next day (today) I had to work. It was ugly. As my hangover started at midnight, you can imagine how terrible I felt at work.
But, I then put the "alcoholic" in "functional alcoholic" by shanking off my hangover and going to a shit-kicking, bayou bar tonight with some friends. This bar is great. It gives a big fuck you to East Baton Rouge Parish (where I live) by only opening on Sunday nights to siphon business from East Baton Rouge, where our fascist blue laws make it illegal to open bars on the Lord's day.
So we went to the Alligator Bar, a place which begs the question, "How many antlers are too many on the wall?" (the answer, of course, is there are never too many antlers on a bar wall). Needless to say, it's a great bar. So I spent the night drinking and dancing with married women to a bar band that knew exactly what to do as a bar band: play straight ahead rock covers that people will know the words to and dance to. As I predicted early in the night, they closed out the bar with "Sweet Home Alabama" and I sang every word exuberantly.
And Mardi Gras season isn't even over: I'm going to New Orleans for Fat Tuesday. Please soften the blow for my parents if I don't make it.
I rolled out of bed at about 8:30 and by 9 a.m. I was dressed for the occasion (one more reminder: our neighborhood color is pink, our symbol, the noble flamingo): I had soccer shorts with a two-tone square pattern shades of pink and orange I didn't think existed. On top I had a bright pink shirt with silver trim and my t-shirt was bright yellow. To top it off I wore pink sunglasses and bright pink floral shoes with flamingo print socks.
I left my house dressed like this with hammer and sickle flask (compliments of Matt and from the former Soviet Union) and a cold beer in my hand. As my good friend, the gay, Republican, editorial writer put it: "Youre the gayest straight guy in Spanish Town." And, you know what? That's fucking right. Bay Area represent.
I started pulling off my flask filled with straight vodka at 9 a.m. and didn't stop until midnight. It was beautiful. We just went house to house in the beautiful south Lousiana 70 degree February weather drinking, eating and frightening children.
Later on in the night things get fuzzy. I apparently punched a guy in the head after I warned him not to touch my ass again, but otherwise things went smoothly. All I really remember is eating a lot of jumbalaya, getting a lot of beads and drinking on my friend's porch.
The next day (today) I had to work. It was ugly. As my hangover started at midnight, you can imagine how terrible I felt at work.
But, I then put the "alcoholic" in "functional alcoholic" by shanking off my hangover and going to a shit-kicking, bayou bar tonight with some friends. This bar is great. It gives a big fuck you to East Baton Rouge Parish (where I live) by only opening on Sunday nights to siphon business from East Baton Rouge, where our fascist blue laws make it illegal to open bars on the Lord's day.
So we went to the Alligator Bar, a place which begs the question, "How many antlers are too many on the wall?" (the answer, of course, is there are never too many antlers on a bar wall). Needless to say, it's a great bar. So I spent the night drinking and dancing with married women to a bar band that knew exactly what to do as a bar band: play straight ahead rock covers that people will know the words to and dance to. As I predicted early in the night, they closed out the bar with "Sweet Home Alabama" and I sang every word exuberantly.
And Mardi Gras season isn't even over: I'm going to New Orleans for Fat Tuesday. Please soften the blow for my parents if I don't make it.
