Sunday, January 16, 2005
The ball
Think Peggy Bundy meets Barney Rubble. Last night was the Spanish Town Mardi Gras Ball, the official kick-off to the Mardi Gras season in my neighborhood and the prelude to the annual Spanish Town Mardi Gras parade and all of it's tacky pink glory.
The group I went with came as "The Spanish Town Beauty Pageant," everyone sporting pink dresses and sashes and I went all out. Anyone who has seen me in drag knows the horror and lasting mental trauma it can cause by I think this get up may be my most terrifying gender-bending venture yet. I wore an open pink shawl thing over a much too sheer pink piece of lingerie (with a pink bra, of course) with a blonde wig, full, trashy make-up complete with a beauty mark, a tiara with fuzzy pink lining, pink fish-net stockings and three-inch black heels.
After wearing big, uncomfortable heels for a night I think I know what it feels like to have bound feet (I'm probably going to hell for that comment). It felt like my feet were being repeatedly steamrolled (my hat's off to all of you ladies who deal with that on a regular basis). Fortunately, the pain was assuaged by the bottle of Gentleman Jack I drank mostly on my own.
I have yet to piece together much of the night in the mushy, useless lump that passes for my brain after such an evening, but I do remember having Jim Beam sprayed into my mouth by my blue-wigged neighbor and getting an unwanted kiss from my friend who, wearing a wife beater and a tutu, drove home that point that no man should ever wear a tutu.
My two favorite non-Druz costumes of the night: my friend from Jackson, Miss., came as Miss Issippi and came with curlers in her hair, a frumpy just-got-out-of-the-bath-need-to-step-outside-the-trailer-for-a-minute pink gown and slippers that say "I Love Jesus" with a rhinestone heart on the front and have the Jesus fish on the soles; another buddy came as "Miss Ed My Period," and came pregnant with pink flowery slippers constantly saying she was drinking/smoking for two.
Against my better judgement, photos to come.
The group I went with came as "The Spanish Town Beauty Pageant," everyone sporting pink dresses and sashes and I went all out. Anyone who has seen me in drag knows the horror and lasting mental trauma it can cause by I think this get up may be my most terrifying gender-bending venture yet. I wore an open pink shawl thing over a much too sheer pink piece of lingerie (with a pink bra, of course) with a blonde wig, full, trashy make-up complete with a beauty mark, a tiara with fuzzy pink lining, pink fish-net stockings and three-inch black heels.
After wearing big, uncomfortable heels for a night I think I know what it feels like to have bound feet (I'm probably going to hell for that comment). It felt like my feet were being repeatedly steamrolled (my hat's off to all of you ladies who deal with that on a regular basis). Fortunately, the pain was assuaged by the bottle of Gentleman Jack I drank mostly on my own.
I have yet to piece together much of the night in the mushy, useless lump that passes for my brain after such an evening, but I do remember having Jim Beam sprayed into my mouth by my blue-wigged neighbor and getting an unwanted kiss from my friend who, wearing a wife beater and a tutu, drove home that point that no man should ever wear a tutu.
My two favorite non-Druz costumes of the night: my friend from Jackson, Miss., came as Miss Issippi and came with curlers in her hair, a frumpy just-got-out-of-the-bath-need-to-step-outside-the-trailer-for-a-minute pink gown and slippers that say "I Love Jesus" with a rhinestone heart on the front and have the Jesus fish on the soles; another buddy came as "Miss Ed My Period," and came pregnant with pink flowery slippers constantly saying she was drinking/smoking for two.
Against my better judgement, photos to come.
Monday, January 10, 2005
The Lucky Hooker
Fishing is frustrating, difficult and, frankly, I am not very good at it. But I love it. The poorly lit cigarettes battered by the Gulf breeze, the lukewarm Coors Light, the hours of frustration without a bite - what could be better?
Today was a perfect day to be on the water. Flocks of white pelicans flew overhead, egrets perched on low lying trees in the thickening fog and I didn't catch a damn thing in the calm brown waters of the Gohegan Canal outside of Slidell, La.
We shoved off in the scrappy 24-foot Lucky Hooker around 2:30 p.m., picking up some live cokahoes and frozen shrimp for bait (they were purely for show of course, as I am the Eddie the Eagle of fishing). Captain Ethan Calder, menthol cigarette in tow, manned the ship, as we cast into the canals of the Rigolese near the Mississippi border, catching mostly mud and the occasional piece of seaweed. We fished into the night and, as the fog rolled in and the sky darkened it felt like we were in the Bermuda triangle. Apparently there are no fish in the Bermuda triangle.
Finally, my buddy, Kerry, caught a bass, breaking our dry spell. So headed for port in poor visibility, hoping not to hit anything bigger than us. When we docked we were cold, wet and smelling of bait, without a single edible fish (we threw back the bass) and completely satisfied - not to mention ready for a cold beer in a warm place.
Today was a perfect day to be on the water. Flocks of white pelicans flew overhead, egrets perched on low lying trees in the thickening fog and I didn't catch a damn thing in the calm brown waters of the Gohegan Canal outside of Slidell, La.
We shoved off in the scrappy 24-foot Lucky Hooker around 2:30 p.m., picking up some live cokahoes and frozen shrimp for bait (they were purely for show of course, as I am the Eddie the Eagle of fishing). Captain Ethan Calder, menthol cigarette in tow, manned the ship, as we cast into the canals of the Rigolese near the Mississippi border, catching mostly mud and the occasional piece of seaweed. We fished into the night and, as the fog rolled in and the sky darkened it felt like we were in the Bermuda triangle. Apparently there are no fish in the Bermuda triangle.
Finally, my buddy, Kerry, caught a bass, breaking our dry spell. So headed for port in poor visibility, hoping not to hit anything bigger than us. When we docked we were cold, wet and smelling of bait, without a single edible fish (we threw back the bass) and completely satisfied - not to mention ready for a cold beer in a warm place.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Can I get a witness to testify?
One of my least favorite parts of the cops beat is perp walks. That's when police call the media to come down to the station so we can watch them walk a suspect from the police station to the police car and ask the suspect stupid questions he doesn't answer.
At one of these walks however, Alvin "Fat Albert" Hatfield, surprised me. Hatfield is accused of beating a man to death by slamming his head against the concrete and at the perp walk (which was back in July) he said, "I got nothing to say except he hit me first." Apparently some attorneys in the case think he had quite a lot to say because I have been subpoenaed as a witness in the murder trial because I reported the perp walk comment in my article about the killing.
Today was to be my day in court and I dressed up all pretty and shaved to impress the judge. Surrounded by family of both the victim and accused, I took a seat in the courtroom next to both the paper's managing editor and its lawyer (both of whom have been trying, unsuccessfully so far, to get me off the stand). Mr. Hatfield then took a seat with a big white crucifix dangling against his orange jumpsuit.
Not that my boss wants to hear this, but I am actually kind of looking forward to taking the stand in such a high-stakes trial (he's facing a count of second-degree murder, which means automatic life, no parole, if he's convicted).
Sadly, my hopes were dashed, at least for the time being, as the trial was continued to March 2.
At one of these walks however, Alvin "Fat Albert" Hatfield, surprised me. Hatfield is accused of beating a man to death by slamming his head against the concrete and at the perp walk (which was back in July) he said, "I got nothing to say except he hit me first." Apparently some attorneys in the case think he had quite a lot to say because I have been subpoenaed as a witness in the murder trial because I reported the perp walk comment in my article about the killing.
Today was to be my day in court and I dressed up all pretty and shaved to impress the judge. Surrounded by family of both the victim and accused, I took a seat in the courtroom next to both the paper's managing editor and its lawyer (both of whom have been trying, unsuccessfully so far, to get me off the stand). Mr. Hatfield then took a seat with a big white crucifix dangling against his orange jumpsuit.
Not that my boss wants to hear this, but I am actually kind of looking forward to taking the stand in such a high-stakes trial (he's facing a count of second-degree murder, which means automatic life, no parole, if he's convicted).
Sadly, my hopes were dashed, at least for the time being, as the trial was continued to March 2.
