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.