If Jesus is the answer, what was the question?
Post your sagacity in my comments box, thanks.
My little itty bitty cousin Eric and his gorgeous girlfriend Nicole are staying with me at Château Bimbeaux for the week, and considering they flew in from California, I gotta give 'em props for their seamless adjustment to New Orleans' lifestyle. Californians, as a species, can't stay out all night and poison their bodies as a sacrifice to the pub crawl gods. They always fizzle out.
I had a rare treat this Sunday; namely, a Night Off due to some creative swapping with co-workers. So what does the Marquis do when released from his bar for an evening? Of course! Go to other bars!
It wasn't all for fun n' games you know. I do consider it a karma investment. When given the opportunity of a Sunday off, I feel it inherently compulsory to pay my respects to friends who work on Sunday night, but whom I can't usually visit.
Started at The Saint to give at least a modicum of love back to Churchy since he so selflessly deigns to brighten so many of my mornings when I'm at work.
Curiously, that modicum, that soupçon, as he'd have it, was not successfully delivered as I spied with my little eye not hide nor hair of the lad at said establishment.
"Well crumb!" I blasphemed (never take a pastry's name in vain), "Off to the next place then!"
Cousin, cousin's girlfriend and housemate in tow, we skittled to Shim Sham to likewise pay l'hommage de la fête to El Conquistador Flynn de Marco. I was toting my «Déjà Deck» tarot cards about with me and dispensed 5 second readings to any querant who had the good sense and fashion sense to request one.
What's the burning question on 80% of Quarter Rats' minds this season? "When will I find a boyfriend."
And what was the general jist of an answer for 62% of those querants? "When you get off your ass and stop thinking one's going to randomly ring your doorbell!"
We were going to pub crawl through various places in the Quarter that we don't visit often, but then Flynn put on Hellraiser, and — well — you know how that goes…
Two hours later, we found ourselves back Uptown at Half Moon for pool. I ran into my charming, nutty coworker Goldie whom I rarely see because if I'm working, she's at home and vice versa. So we hopped and screamed and giggled like schoolgirls with their first period then a dreadful thought occurred:
"Goldie," I said with terror in mine eyes, "if you're here and I'm here — then who the fuck is working?"
"I swapped tonight with you so you could have your birthday off! Which of us is fired?"
"Uhhhh… I just worked a double. I'm sure it's not me…"
A frantic phone call to our bar to see who would answer the phone.
[ring ring] "It's a great night at The Hideout where the fun never ends, this is Aria, how the fuck can I help you?"
I adore Aria, but never more than at that moment.
"You're back from your trip!" I yelled over the conflicting music of two bars. "Oh thank Christ-on-a-stick…"
Housemate Nalcée had the brilliant idea yesterday of taking the household and our guests down to Woodland Plantation (FunFact: it is pictured on the Southern Comfort label) for the day. It was a jolly romp through the swamps, a blissful chill sesh on the plantation's rocking-chair-ridden, ample front porch, and a cocktail in the old church, now converted to a bar, the bar itself being the altar.
But this entry is about the project I accidentally began. Leaving the house, I picked up a book that was lying on the mail table in the foyer, thinking it might be nice to have something to read on the drive down. The book is the hideously chipper “Life's Little Instruction Book” jam packed with Advice for the Beige.
It occurred to me, flipping through this book, what a strange world I live in, for while the little one-liners of advice in the book do not consist of bad advice, it could definitely have been done differently to apply to my life, and the lives of so many I know.
Nalcée gave me the go-ahead to defile his book (which was a high school graduation gift of which he spoke disparagingly) and I spent spare moments throughout the day taking each bit of advice, crossing out parts and adding my own to make the whole thing more applicable and more … French Quarter (if I may coin a subculture thusly).
When I finish the project, I will submit it to my fellow editors of “Suffering Is Hip” Magazine and see if it can be published in its entirety there.
In the meantime, here are a few samples.
There are two ways to read these nuggets of advice. The white and overstriked grey words are the original from the book. The white and red words are my updated, improved (I flatter myself) versions.
"Yah, that was a good meal, but you know what? There was just a little too much garlic in it."
Yah, neither have I.
I just underwent a little experiment. I made one of those cheap-ass frozen pizzas but chopped up fistfulls of garlic — what looked to be "way too much garlic" — just to see if such a thing existed as "way too much garlic".
Answer: Negative. My research will go on.
P.S. Know who's fuckin' funny? Neshenti's fuckin' funny!
If you live in New Orleans, or have ever visited, you are probably acquainted with this scam, usually perpetrated by an alarmingly skinny black man floating around somewhere mid-Decatur.
"Yo, I betchoo $10 I can guess where you got dem shoes!"
The first time I heard this, I thought several thoughts: 1) I'm about to be scammed. 2) Chances are this dreadful person wasn't shadowing me in Scotland when I bought these shoes. 3) I could use me some $10.
I'm sure 98% of his victims think the same thing (exchanging "Scotland" for wherever they bought their shoes) and lose the bet. But this story counts as a big ole' point for the English majors of the world! Lawsy knows we get precious few snaps as it is. I don't have any problem scoring one at the expense of some crack-peasant in the Quarter.
"You got dem shoes on yo' feets!" he said triumphantly, "now where be mah ten dallahz?"
After a moment of reflection, I rejoindered with this: "My good man, it pains me to have to disagree with you, but you are sadly mistaken. Although I am currently wearing these shoes on my, as you call them, 'feets', I did in fact get, that is to say acquire (if we're going to be true to Mssr. Webster and his great innovative tome of vocabulary, and with which I'm sure you are well acquainted) these darn shoes in Edinburgh. Now I hate to trouble you, but if you have that $10 handy, I should be much obliged…"
Mau-fau didn't give me no $10. Alls I gots was an exasperated, "Sheeeeeeet."
Live n' learn.