On New Orleans and Keeping my Drunk Monkey in Check
Photo by Patrick Semansky/Getty Images
What is it about New Orleans that just makes you wanna act like a 25 year old crazed monkey?
So I go down to NOLA with my pal G and his wife M last week, because, well, why not? And I haven’t been there since that one time in college I don’t really remember, except that I got in a lot of trouble when I intercepted some beads that were meant for the guy behind me during the Miss Transvestite USA parade. I mean — come on. I’m from Ohio. I had no idea I was surrounded by trannies — I thought they were just gorgeous models (Southern Ohio in the 80’s did not have trannies… or very many out gay people in general. Trust — it wasn’t exactly a safe haven for well, anyone different) — so when the guys on the floats (behind the MT USA floats) were throwing beads, I was confused. When I realized they were for the hot shirtless guys behind me and not for… well, me (I’d lifted my shirt for nothing — thank God it was the days before GIRLS GONE WILD and cameras everywhere. I blame that on the Hurricanes) I was slightly mortified.
This time was different — we stayed at the Columns Hotel in the Garden District and it was all based on good food (Jacques-Imo’s Cafe, Patois), biking (we rented bikes to travel in and out of the French Quarter, the Marigny and the 9th Ward), and Bloody Marys (it’s New Orleans, gimme a break). G — who was very excited about CLASH OF THE TITANS — kept announcing, “Release the Crappin’!” while M downed Ramos gin fizz’s. G also swears he can “smell a storm a brewin’ ” (he once lived in NOLA which apparently has had a permanent effect on his olfactory senses. He’d also just been watching the news/weather report). He likes to wear tight cut off shorts with desert chukka boots and flannel shirts with a bandanna wrapped around his neck. He makes me laugh.
But the best thing was the yummy Creole/Cajun men. I know there’s a difference but I have no clue what it is! Not that I care. I just love looking! I mean, let’s be honest–I have a problem. What I like physically is not what I like mentally. And ne’er the twain shall meet. Or rarely. We’re talking unicorn in a field of rainbows and satyrs, rarely. It’s like the time I dated the hot, bald fireman. He was so hot I’d walk into parties and all the women would stop, drop and stare before asking “WHERE DID YOU GET HIM????” That was the good part. The bad part was when he opened his mouth. Well, that and the bleeding Jesus crucifix in his bedroom, the waterbed and the fact that every time a gay friend of mine came around (all the time) he clammed up and freaked out. I mean — a frickin’ waterbed? What is this, 1979? So now I’ve learned to just look, and appreciate. Like fine works of art. So I kept my drunk monkey in check.
I’m getting my next “big man with big hands who can actually change a tire” fix at the end of the month. There’s some country music festival that my pal Theano is taking me to in Palm Springs. I’m cuffing myself for that one.