Broken. Cassé. Roto. Been playing too hard. Well, I don't know if "too" is the proper word, but…
"Typical" night: Bike down to Shim Sham around 10ish for the Betsy Johnson Fashion Show. Most of my favorite strippers who come to see me at work are modeling to 40's big band music. I delight in the fantastic clothes on these gorgeous women, powdered and perruqued, sparkled-out to hell and back, dancing to Andrews Sisters type tunes and covered in colorful rock-n-roll tattoos. One of those "only in New Orleans" moments.
After the show, I hang out and talk to a few hundred of my closest friends for a while. The problem with being being a bartender on Lower Decatur is that everyone knows you, and everyone expects that you know them back. Me, I'm shit with names. Fifteen or so people last night came up to me, "Marquis! How ahhhhhre yooooou?"
"Well, hi … you! How are … you doing?" (I can remember what they drink, but not their names. It doesn't mean I don't care. It simply means I'm shit with names. There are just too many to remember, and my poor simple country head can't seem to manage.)
Depart Shim Sham for The Abbey on Decatur. Genevieve is throwing a Satanic Ho-Down there. Hay on the floors and drunk people smoking. (2 + 2 = fire hazard?) Gen in a trashy Daisy Duke ahn-sahm-blah which I jokingly refer to as "half-assed" for the view of most of her derrière it affords.
Evil country music, corndogs and a hog calling contest. Ex-coworker/old friend of mine wins after making some truly bizarre noises into the mic which, if I were a pig, would not beckon me thither poste haste. He beat out a guy who rolled in the hay calling, "Here piggy piggy, ooooh yah piggy…" in a sort of sultry/trashy Isaac Hayes/Barry White way.
Run up to Hideout and cover for Candace for a moment so she can go to Gen's Evil Ho-Down for a few moments. I miss the Dolly Parton Look-Alike contest for Best Udders. My friend who had found a trashy blonde wig and big fake wax lips won. She was called Dolly Nicole Smith for the rest of the night.
Talk with Gen about planning the Ultimate Bikini Bash at Lounge Lizards in a few weeks. One must keep many irons in the fire to ensure there will always be nights like last night going on.
Jump between Hideout and Abbey for a couple more hours. Note: no drugs nor heavy drinking. One shot, a few light beers nursed. It's more about the flirting and kissing and partying and kissing and kissing.
Came home around 5am. Housemate Nathan was standing on the stoop, waiting for an ambulance. Other housemate apparently wiped out on her bike coming home from the Quarter. Puddles and trails of blood all over the house. By the merest chance, her boss (and my friend Dolly Nicole Smith) was driving home and found her sprawled in the road and brought her back to my house. She was in some sort of shock and wouldn't go with the medics, opting instead to stay home and sleep. The bleeding in the gash in her face had finally stopped and although she wasn't making much sense, she did seem oddly "lucid," so I wagered a death-by-falling-asleep-with-concussion was not going to happen and thus didn't forcibly take her to hospital.
Fell asleep reading as the sky turned to its chalky-hued dawn.
Awake early afternoon, thinking of last night and all its adventures — another night in New Orleans.
Tonight, my itty bitty baby cousin (22) and his gorgeous girlfriend fly in for a little Fall Break respite. I emailed him yesterday with instructions to sleep on the plane as we are going straight from the airport to Punk Rock Karaoke and god-knows-what-else afterwards…
…another night in New Orleans.