Streaky

Hey there, ‘Redheads… So, this is the last blog of my two and change month long weekday streak. Roughly 45 entries which, in previous years, has been my usual annual output. So, has this enriched the blog experience for you, the loyal reader? I don’t mean that generally, I’m speaking to my one loyal reader. I hope I’ve been able to keep things remotely interesting and mildly amusing. With the national attention deficit being at an all time high, I’m thankful for whatever time your eyes dart over here.

I plan to pick up where I left off and provide you with a travelogue of my jaunt down to Mardi Gras. There will be tasteful pictures and as clear a recollection as my fried synapses can manage. Keep in mind, not only is this for Mardi Gras, but also for a friend’s bachelor party, so some photos and stories may be redacted so that there’ll still be a wedding. I still haven’t packed yet, but I plan to travel light. I’m going to leave behind my dignity and self respect. I’ve had several things recommended to me for my trip. I’ve got to eat fried chicken at Willie Mae’s Scotch House, take in some jazz at Preservation Hall, and drink several beverages named for things that destroy other things. My checklist runneth over. If there’s anything else I’m missing, please to leave it in the comments section.

See you when I get back…

Advertisements

Party? Moi?

Hey there, ‘Redheads… I’m going to admit this right up front. I’ve got nothing. I just got back from the kind of meal that bears eat before they start hibernating, so I’m in a digestive daze. But, I want to keep the streak of blogs going until I go on a short hiatus next week. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m hopping on a plane to New Orleans, where they’re having some sort of party. I’m still not quite sure what to expect. Actually, I’m very sure what to expect: drunken mayhem. A near nonstop cacophony of “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” until I get back on the plane to come home. Ten thousand fists all pumping in unison as beads fly haphazardly through the air to the awaiting boobs below. Girls going wild. And I’ll be resisting the temptation to call them whippersnappers and yell at them to get off my lawn. I may have to find an Advil patch I can slap directly onto my forehead for the screaming headache I’m going to have. Some people would say that, at 35, my wild partying days are behind me. Well, I never had wild partying days in the first place. I’ve got one decent tequila story in me, which involved passing out, casually puking onto some guy’s carpet, then being carried out of the party by two friends on mine. That was roughly 15 years ago. Other than that, I’m sure there are nuns that throw down harder than I do. I’m not going to pretend I don’t drink, I do enjoy a frosty beverage, but I never venture outside the safe confines of fuzzy lucidity. The kids who I’m going to encounter on Bourbon Street black out so much, their memories are patchier than the AIDS quilt. Luckily, I’ll be able to find some measure of peace and quiet at the casino. I’ll hide from one degenerate vice beneath the underbelly of another. Which reminds me, I still have to pack.

See you Friday.