Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Hurricane? Drink.
Welcome, Ivan, the first hurricane to threaten Louisiana in the Druz's storied tenure here. As I drove east on Interstate 10 today, the westbound lanes were jammed with people fleeing New Orleans, a city seemingly built for a single purpose: to get completely fucked by hurricanes. Lying near the coast almost entirely below sea-level with the Mississipi River on one side and a monstrous lake on the other, New Orleans is positioned perfectly to be 20 feet underwater and facing a storm surge about five minutes after a hurricane hits.
And what better way to celebrate an impending costly, destructive disaster than popping open a cold one or 10? The first hurricane party of the season promises to include the requisite rainslickers and galoshes and, of course, Hurricanes, a girly, but potent crushed ice drink, with 3 shots of rum mixed with orange and pineapple juice.
I haven't got the word yet on whether I get to work on a hurricane story for the paper, but with luck I will be ass deep in dirty water and fire ants soon enough.
And what better way to celebrate an impending costly, destructive disaster than popping open a cold one or 10? The first hurricane party of the season promises to include the requisite rainslickers and galoshes and, of course, Hurricanes, a girly, but potent crushed ice drink, with 3 shots of rum mixed with orange and pineapple juice.
I haven't got the word yet on whether I get to work on a hurricane story for the paper, but with luck I will be ass deep in dirty water and fire ants soon enough.
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Wow, Heath. Your theme parties have steadily gone deadly, huh? First it was White Trash, where the most dangerous things were the critters that were crawling out of that hay bale in the living room. Then Euro Trash, where the bathtub-brewed sangria almost did me in. Now a hurricane party? Maybe your costume should involve a life vest.
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