18 March 2002


Saturday we went to La Peniche for breakfast. We didn't linger, though, as we had to get back to our house for the Irish Channel St. Patrick's parade.

The parade lined up on Felicity - just a few blocks from our house - but it stretched well down Magazine, to where we were. Sonya had a big jug o' mimosa, I had a large beer. The sun was very hot. Perfect parade conditions.

Sonya, Christie and Annabeth got lots of flowers from the drunken Irishmen in exchange for kisses on the cheek. We all caught lots of beads and more than our fair share of cabbages. Two hours later we were beaten down with parade fatigue. We retired to the coolness of the living room, where we watched High Fidelity and scarfed down big bowls of cheese dip.

We got to the French Quarter about eight. We stopped at Crescent City Brewhouse for some food; while we were waiting outside for a table the St. Joseph's parade, complete with float after float of maids, came down Decatur. A parade is better than watching the TV over the bar, yeah?

Things started to unravel after that. We walked through the patio at Pat O'Brien's - so Annabeth could see the flaming fountain - and then we traversed Bourbon Street for a while.

Boubon Street Filth of the Night: This chick was standing on the balcony at Cat's Meow, wearing a short denim skirt and wearing no panties. Several times as we slowly made our way past her skirt got lifted (either by herself or her boyfriend) and one time the boyfriend reached over and diddled her twat in full view of the public. Isn't that against the law or something? I mean, manual stimulation of genitalia in full view of the public must at least be a misdemeanor.

Then we stopped by Tropical Isle (to point out the colorful decorations) and Lafitte's (for the historical value of the old place. We walked down to the Crowbar but it was pretty slow. Over to the Shim Sham and the cover was eight freakin' dollars. That wasn't gonna happen. Instead we went to the Gold Mine - two bucks to get in, flaming Dr. Peppers and buttery nipple shots and lots of really loud hip hop.

"Hey, Annabeth!" I yelled over the Ludacris on the sound system.

"What?" she yelled back.

"I'm all fucked up!"


But that got really fucking loud, so it was time to walk again.

"I'm ready to dance now," Christie declared once we were outside. We headed for the gay discos.

The ridiculously overpriced gay discos, I should say. Ten bucks a pop to get in? Yup. We chose to take our business elsewhere.

So we went back to the Shim Sham, and the cover charge had evaporated. We listened to some tunes for a while then closed our evening on the balcony, gawking and pointing at the people below us and taking pictures. 

We were such tourists!

Sunday Annabeth and Christie left town and Sonya and I lay, comatose, for the rest of the day. We only stirred to eat and pick up the phone to order Wrestlemania. The Rock beat the crap out of Hulk Hogan, dude, but they shared the Handshake of Mutual Respect afterwards. A classic ending to a classic weekend.