Naw'leans Decadence

So first and foremost, I must congratulate the town of New Orleans for simultaneously creating some of the best food and music in a place that smells of vomit, piss, and ass sweat. I guess I should retract that statement to say, that only parts of New Orleans (all of Bourbon Street) smell of the “holy trinity” of aforementioned odors. Anyhow, I bring that up, because that is why I liked New Orleans so much. Much of the fun of Las Vegas is concentrated in the glitz and glamour of the Strip, and the stunning displays of vertical architecture, grandiose cars, and picturesque models. New Orleans on the other hand is grimy, serpent like in structure, and smells like a dumpster outside Fraternity Court, and I absolutely loved it. It’s raw, unvarnished, and wonderfully rich all at the same time. And I should add that if one desires classy, more posh circumstances, then New Orleans can deliver that with a nice southern charm as well. Still, what appealed to me most was what would appeal to most young people – the debauchery, the lack of regard for traditional conventions, and the complete ease with which you accept it.

Truly the pinnacle of the entire 28 hours I spent there was Sunday night, known as the parade night of “Southern Decadence.” For those unfamiliar with this festival, it is the week-long Gay Pride event that culminates on the Sunday before Labor Day, so creatively called the “Gay Mardi Gras.” Your usual thin, Fauxhawk-sporting, and scantily dressed young gays were there; however, the surprise that met my eyes were the large number of bearded, fairly plump, gay men in what had to be their early 50s romping about as if they were 16 and getting drunk for the first time. For those that know me, you know that this in no way grosses me out, in fact quite the contrary. It makes me laugh because of how nice and free it looks – “Hey, I’m fat, you’re fat, oh you’re not wearing a shirt, let me touch you and then make out with you.” If only I were allowed to do that at my parties and clubs without having to be escorted out by some dude who always has is bald and wearing a black collar-less shirt.

Of course, one does not need to stretch their mind very far to deduce what the equivalent of flashing breasts for beads would be at this festival. I saw some nipples, and some were quite nice. I also so some straight up mashed ball-sack. The first guy who ended up showing his hang-dangle was being somewhat artsy – he was wearing low cut underwear and slowly revealing himself to the people on the balcony above him. Then some other guy sort of took this the way someone would at a karaoke bar – they see someone else singing and think that they can sing too, and then of course everyone leaves the karaoke bar. He comes along undoes his zipper and just waves ball-sack/dick upward towards these girls in a manner that pretty much looks like he’s just going to wank one out if nobody stopped him. At this point my other fellow travelers were either laughing hysterically or covering their eyes and walking away. Well, needless to say, Mr. Chod-head here basically summed up our whole trip in a matter of five minutes – good times that are slightly crazy, then get real crazy, and then just elicits gut-busting laughter. The other parts of the trip were awesome too – I rode the mechanical bull at Bourbon Cowboy and many told me I looked like I was sodomizing the bull, and then I felt the coolest when I started dancing at the intersection of Bourbon and Canal Street, to a jazzed up “When the Saints,” and of course I did the worm (please, it’s my signature move). I ate the biggest and best shrimp I’ve ever eaten, and had to remove the head and then suck out the marrow (gross sounding but delicious tasting), and realized that red beans and rice is one of those things I always forget to think about but love every time I eat them. I lifted up my own shirt to receive beads and was told no, but then as I walked away, the beads were pelted at the back of my head. I didn’t even think to get mad, I immediately laughed as soon as it happened – and laughed about it again when I had beignets and Café Au Lait the next day. Thus, it goes to show what I liked about New Orleans – I get hit in the head with beads, have dick waved near me, and shat out what smelled like crawfish the next morning, and I’m still smiling three days later. Long live the “Who Dat” nation.

Humor as the Cure

As I sit at my desk, I nervously await my roommate coming home. She generally asks me lots of questions, many of which I must fabricate some sort of worthy answer to, thus saving me a conversation about making the most of my time. If I were to tell the truth, I would be subjected to penetrative eyes and staccato rhetoric about how my life will go nowhere if I have no ambition.

My roommate is nice though – she lets me eat whatever she’s cooked, and she does my laundry with hers. She generally looks out for my well-being, and lies to her friends about what I am doing so that I don’t look bad. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship – I screw in light bulbs, lift plants, and unscrew jars, and she does most of the other stuff to keep our residence looking good.

So, the question might beg of itself, who is this roommate of mine, and why have I voluntarily agreed to live with her. The answer is quite simple. My new roommate is my mother, and I live with her because at the moment my life is not following the GPS navigated course I had set up for it. I made a left turn a little too soon, and need to get back to the main road. Too many metaphors, I know, but think about all the symbolism I just put into two sentences. As Gob on Arrested Development would say, "C’MON!"

Now many would find the fact that I live at home sad or darkly funny. What’s even funnier is that the valedictorian of a high school is working an $8 an hour job at Borders Café, where we do brew a great cup of coffee for a quality value (Plug-in for work: Check). But I know it sounds cliché, but I’m not worried. I’d be more worried if I were one of a kind (I mean I am very unique, and my roommate has commented once that I have special eyes), but the fact of the matter is, I am one of many who has made the trek home. The prodigal son returns, for pretty much most of the suburban households I know. Out of a random sampling of 10 of my friends – whom I met at different points, all with different abilities and accomplishments, 6 of us live at home. That’s 60%. For something to be an anomaly, you would expect the percentages to be 10% or less. So while I know most of us have come to terms with rooming with old parental units again, sometimes it still saddens me a little bit, so I remind myself at those times, that it’s part of the game. It’s simply good poker strategy – wait for your big hand, and then play aggressively. If you’ve got nothing, play the blinds and then get out, and wait for the next deal. So while I wait for the next dealing of hands to come around, I have decided to pass the time with humor.

Thus, I think I need force myself to laugh more about my observations instead of getting upset – which in turn means that I will be now writing my blogs as humor entries, mixed with some insight here and there. So, first and foremost, I must credit those who are much more adept than myself, and recommend a book to everyone. It’s called “Sh*t My Dad Says.” You can find it for the low, low price of $15.99 at Borders Bookstore, where your music, media, and book needs can be fulfilled with a smile (I better be getting a goddamn promotion soon). But seriously, if I were you, don’t buy it, but go in sometime and read it for 15-20 minutes, and you’ll have a great laugh. You can also check it out online, and I’m telling you, it’s the kind of blunt, unvarnished humor that only a senile, old, yet oddly keen person would say that makes total sense to us in our 20s. Also, listen to “September” by Earth, Wind, and Fire sometime this month (it is September after all), and write me back if you don’t bob your head along. I'm telling you, you can't listen to that song and not feel good. Look for the next post soon.