Home for a few days, then it's back to New Orleans....
Time managed to fly by and drag more this time around, somehow.
Firstly, ouch. My health. Prior to leaving, I was quite happy with the changes I'd made to my diet and excersize routine. Of course, since being in New Orleans I haven't had the time/resource to do these things....my excersize has varied as the work has, and certainly hasn't been as strenous as what I'd be lifting at home. Then there's the eating....when the company is picking up the tab for everything you eat AND providing unlimited supplies at the "dorm"...well, you don't stay hungry much, and you try LOTS of new food. I've actually been eating at LEAST three times a day, as opposed to my prior two times a day diet. I tried the lifting today and wow...my body is unhappy with me. It says it's time to lighten the weights and work back up to it. Alas.
Ours was the first bus to arrive, and as I wandered into the almost empty facility I wondered if anyone would be returning-Chris was supposed to be coming back, would he actually make it so we could rock the Quarter bars again? I'm slamming my shit into my locker (a surprisingly easy task, since I only carry one bag, whereas other people have....loads more shit they bring) and I glanced to my right-holy shit, it's James/Jimmy! He was supposed to be gone! He'd be around for another 2 weeks also, rocking rock! We commandeered a corner of the facility for ourselves and whatever little group we assemble. It didn't take long to find our little niche group once others started arriving, but sadly it never matched up as well as James/Chris/myself. We decided to head down the road to the Olive Garden for a bite to eat on someone else's dime.
Dinner at the Garden being, of course, hilarious. 4 straight guys, 2 homos, and no shame. The elderly seated near us were traumatised, constantly stopping and glaring in an indescribable face. I don't blame them, when the table across from you gets a bread stick that looks exactly like a penis. And when the breadstick is then stuck in the zipper of a guy who looks like a girl. And two other guys then proceed to bite off the breadstick. Oh, homoerotic hilarity, how I love ye.
The working, this time, varied wildly. My least favorite parts would have to be deep freezer installation:you know, when you go to a grocery store and there's freezers for meat, and ice cream, and dairy, etc; and you KNOW that there's an even bigger colder freezer somewhere else for the stock....yea, guess who got to work in the (eventually) frigid cold installing those things then building the shelving stuff etc inside them? Farking COLD! After a few days of that, my skin...my HANDS....knuckles reddened and cracked, every fold of skin dry and flaking, ugh.
Had a load of "fun" working in a car garage, installing the tire racks and organizing those. The tire racks were FRIGHTENING, since to create a second "floor" steel grates were just slammed on top of the shelves and more shelving put on there. The whole place was nasty, the "pit" below (for workers to get under cars for oil changes, etc) hadn't been cleaned yet and had a broken...something...that was spewing nasty bubbly green water. It took almost three days to get the tire racks all set up since I had to do it all by myself-sure, I had "help", but they were useless. They couldn't understand how it was supposed to be inventoried, nor how I was arranging it to minimize the amount of walking around people would have to do. "Why are you labeling the backside of the racks? Put it on THIS side. That way, you step into the racks and you can see TWO shelves worth of stuff and immediately see where the divisions are. Your way, people have to walk back and forth and it isn't all left-to-right reading." "Huh?" *sigh* So aside from the confusion of getting it set up (and argueing with the frigging bluprints I had), I eventually resigned myself to putting all the tires in myself. My guys didn't like to read more than a few characters....so, for instance, a tire that is P165/14R-BW-XTRAC-VIVA2....well, no, they wouldn't seek out the specific slot (because they couldn't bother to learn what those codes mean, how/where they're written on the tire/shelf), they'd look at the first set of numbers and stick it anywhere in the P165 slots (if I was lucky, they might put it in the correct R slot as well)...even after explaining that if they were that confused, then look for the P and R to find the right area, then find the correct slot by looking at the bar code. See the last three digits of the barcode on the tire? The barcode is also written on the shelf, and no two tires are going to share the same last three digits, I've already checked. Got a P205/15R-TOR2-HGTH-URAD but can't (WON'T) find the detailed placemarker? Now you can go to the 205's, find where the 15Rs go, check the last three digits of the tire's bar code and look for those three digits in that area. Easy, right?
Fucking WRONG. Couldn't even do that. We got almost "done" and had to tear the whole thing down again. Unhappy camper, I was.
On the plus side, someone was taking pics for a magazine, and got a GREAT shot of a clearly confused peon. I'll put it below.
You know, again, let's skip the work details. It was tedious. Nuff said.
I missed those showers so much....the heat never ran out, though again it caused SERIOUS skin issues. It only made my hands WORSE, every fold/wrinkle/flex in my skin is cracked. This time, though, we had a new problem. It would seem that someone(s) didn't comprehend what showers and toilets were for....since I know of at least 5 times that someone found that a shit had been taken there IN THE SHOWER STALL.....urine on the floor....fucking heteromerican males. No problems like that in the female's facility....ohno, the worst problem THEY have is couples taking a long time in the shower while others are waiting.
I could write volumes on what I observed of human behavior in those places...another fine reason I avoided military service. Being crammed in close quarters with hundreds of other repressed and insecure males? No thanks. The things I heard, saw; sickeningly sad.
James had been trying so hard for over a week, hitting on a lovely young lady (who instead of being younger than me actually ended up being a decade older!), a cute redheaded girl that wasn't really my type. "Dude, don't mess with her, she's so mine. I'm gonna get that." Yea, fine, no worries. Not interesting looking enough anyway. THEN I saw two tattoos....and a conversation sparked....and modeling, then Suicide Girls was brought up. A week of work, James had almost nothing to show for it; ten minutes and I have her applying for SG and letting me do the photography. Proud to say that it went well, just as every person who's ear I've whispered "SG" into has. Too bad I can't get a finder's fee!
As opposed to last time, where the drunk nights outnumbered the sober nights, the opposite was true this time:more sober than drunk. Instead, I went for quality over quantity. One night, though....less than good. Nearly fatal.
We'd left the shithole bar quite inebriated, and our driver was supposed to be sober....we cram 6 people into a tiny car (sorry Kevin, you're the smallest, you get crammed into the corner corner and have your balls crushed again) and head down to the French Quarters. Only an hour left until it closes, but enough time for a few drinks a few tits and for the girls (James and I were the only males) to do a bit of dancing. I'm not a fan of drunk driving, or any kind of inebriated driving....but our driver was sober, so I was content....until the car began to fill with an acrid smoke, coming heavily from our driver. Great. Stoned, drunk, cracked out, whatever, all BAD when on the road. As we tear down a crammed Canal street on a Saturday night, parked vehicles and military police in the medians, it was already tough to see the tiny curb side STOP markers....we approach an intersection and I see through the parked cars:an even bigger vehicle coming down the cross street at an equally fast speed. We meet in the intersection, with a screech of tires a chorus of screams, a hard thud and a swerve, I can't tell if I yelled "Stopstopstop!" loudly enough or even at all, I see the other driver's head hit the steering wheel and then my own head hit the window, a moment of blurryness and darkness....and....we're slamming to a stop in a sidestreet and parking in a crumbling building/lot? Did we just run?
The chaos of the night didn't end there, though....
I would, the next morning, see in the newspaper a headline about the first shootings/violence in the Quarter since it reopened-I was still too drunk to really comprehend the article, but it looked like the Quarter and explained the events that were unfolding as we left...
Trying to get out of the Quarter, traffic was oddly backed up...and police-LOTS of police-were all running towards one area, ambulances tried to force their way through, MP vehicles cut off traffic and blocked, we had no idea what was going on or where they were going....apparently there'd been a shooting situation. Either the cops were bored, or it was serious.
Interestingly, violence followed the next day as well:upon our arrival in the quarter, medical workers were loading up a man who'd been shot in the head, practically between the eyes. Not as much blood as you would expect, surprisingly. (I realize I'm going WAY out of chronological order, since I am now describing my last night there while still many stories of other nights remain) THIS....was a helluva night. We've detailed my getting James' crush nekkid, now we have another (of several for a change) story of my swiping the gold from under some poor bastard's nose. In most of the bars/clubs/strip joints on Bourbon, there are people known as "Shooter Girls". What they do is walk around scantily clad or less, carrying a rack of test tubes filled with various brightly colored alcoholic beverages. Basically a fancy shot. The point is to get tips in addition to the money for the drink, and they typically persuade you by allowing you to get your drink in an innudeno filled way. Typically you'll drink it from their mouth, or do a body shot, or they'll shimmy you down and pour it in your mouth, etc. The cost of these things is ridiculous, and they enjoy preying on people who don't know how it works...."Hey, now you owe me money!" I'm trying to enjoy the band playing, and brushing off a very persistant shooter girl. Older guy, his first visit to New Orleans, going CRAZY over the girls walking around and uhoh...my shooter girl has him in her talons. Just because she's offering it, that doesn't make it free, buddy....anyway, so he gets his shot-she slides the test tube in her mouth and has him suck the fluid from the other end of the tube....and now they're argueing over money. Seems he doesn't want to pay, and I don't blame him-the cost is practically triple what it should be! She comes back to me AGAIN, and I shake my drink at her to indicate I'm good, thanks. She slams down the tray and grabs THREE of these things by the mouth and turns back to me, and as I start to open my mouth to finally yell at the girl my crotch is grabbed, her face is slammed into mine and leaned back we go....somehow, I didn't miss a DROP of it. The empty tubes are taken from my mouth and shoved into my hand, she smiles turns around and...tweaks her nipple at the older guy, then walks off. I'm...confused. I didn't pay? I have only a few bucks on me if she comes back? That tasted great? The older guy is...looking at me like I just insulted his mother? "What the fuck, I had to pay $25 for a shot!" Wellsir, I guess some of us are just lucky like that. Everyone wants to try and get the stoic guy to smile! He went to the bar to pout, and I went back to enjoying the music.
Shooter girl came back 4 more times with various liqours for me, and never asked for a dime. I don't know what I did, but goddamnit-I am GOOD. First time I've ever done a body shot, too!
Wandering towards the Dervish to show James one of the best nonBourbon places, I nearly broke my neck doing a double take:passed a restaurant where a clone of Darren was eating. I snapped back and slammed to the window and....it looked just like Darren, but he was with noone I knew and didn't respond to his name. A few shots here, hey hey, time to move on. Let's cut through the rainbow district and get back to Bourbon! We stopped at a place...I can't remember the name, some kind of Irish pub type thing where they were grilling hotdogs and cooking chili outside....it looked nifty, but I had to stare at someone:she had INCREDIBLE facial tattoos. Strange population mix in there, more "goth" type than there were in the Dervish. I finished my examination of the intricate markings on her and the other bartender; with a shot-shot here and a shot-shot there. Tried to explain to James how good times actually end up making me feel even worse than I usually do-I'm always miserable, but a good night can really REALLY chap me and make it worse for days. Back to the quest for Bourbon! Rainbow, ho!
Street vendors. Bob bless them, particularly the one that James was on a first name basis with. We slammed a few more shots, and then got a few free samples...."Alright, your crafty sales tactic worked. We need hurricanes!" Wait, I need a third and final shot sample to make sure...
Eventually we made it back and picked up a few friends, determined to expose them to this place (I cant remember the name) near the Rainbow district, a corner bar, very dark and medieval, lit by candles, and serving up the meanest (and largest!) Voodoo around...and for only $6! It tastes like grape Kool-Aid! HUGE cup!
It was during our times down there that I again became "The Man"-a gay man in one arm, a lesbian in the other arm. To look at them, there was no mistaking their gender or sexual preference, but I....what the fuck did *I* look like in that bunch?
Again, we stop for the drinking and the dancing (well, no dancing for me, I simply can't), and I had a WONDERFUL first experience:I've never had a guy at a gay bar buy me a drink! Lo and behold, someone bought me TWO! A "shot" of Jager and a "shot" of Crown, though apparently in gaytown a "shot" means "plastic Dixie cup full". Either very generous, or someone REALLY wanted to get me drunk(er). I couldn't really tell what he looked like (drunk, dark, more concerned with the drink), so my response to the question of "what did he look like?" is bound to become classic:"He had a shirt on. Probably cotten, I couldn't tell."
....um. stuff.
The ride home was horrifying:we were being picked up in a rusty old truck, and it was raining heavily, we crammed people into the back of the truck....the driver was a SPEED DEMON. You probably don't know this, but I am TERRIFIED of bridges, especially bridges over (troubled?) water. It's a miracle I didn't vomit everywhere, as smashed as I was, as sick as I was, and as frightened as I was.
Most of the Quarter nights were.....frustrating. If ya know what I mean. Next time you look up the word "blue" in a dictionary, you may see a picture of my genitals.
Other interesting events....ran into an old high school friend, Heather. She still lives in Pensacola, which is only about 2 hours from New Orleans. She is convinced that the old Kevin is still alive somewhere (and my recent adventures do suggest it's possible) and is intent on finding him. "The boy who danced in the car seat to Spacehog on the way to a zoo is dead." She's put some pressures and suggestions on that I'm really unsure how to take. Apparently she'd been looking for me for YEARS, even taking out personals and ads to try and find me....she named her first child after me. There is a child bearing my name (well, not my last name). I know I was your best friend, Heather, I know you loved me. I hear it from every person who's sought me out. I am loved for what I do and how I do it-not for me, who I am that never got to be and no one ever found. No one ever cared to even look for it. No one sees me while I'm there, it's when I'm gone. "You don't know what you've got, until it's gone." You remember me for the things I did for you. All I do for you and you STILL ask me to play only your way. When would I get mine?
The most entertaining of the nights, though, involved no drink and no sexual tension, surprisingly. Me buddy Danielle and I got together a few nights. This also ties in with another tale of "Whoops! Kevin took the rug out from under you!" I was working with a schmuck named Chris (who thought it would be funny to roll a tire downstairs at me, causing a helluva leg bruising) who, during one "conversation", make mention of his friend Danielle who just got a Punisher tattoo on her back. Wait, what?! Danielle who works at Rhinos? Yea, I know her! Of course I actually know her, what the fuck does that mean? Ooooooh....an online crush, eh? Well damn. It was time to twist the knife-I called Dani to ask about him. Yep, they sorta know each other and she can't stand him, and he's focused on getting into her pants...failing horribly. Gosh, you know, I turned down the option, Chris, could have had her but chose not to. Did you ever see THESE pics that she took and sent to me? Oh, she tells me those weren't for other eyes. Well, I guess it's a good thing you only saw those few, she wouldn't want you to see the rest. Ohyes, I've spoken to her about you, and yea-you feel she's unattainable because, I quote, "I AM unattainable-for him!". Sorry mate.
Despite enjoying watching him squirm, I had to give a LITTLE hope and enlightenment to him...he was talking of just leaving her be, though he considered her a good friend. So it came to the talk....where you really need to understand what a friend is, and what truly loving a friend means. Are you really her friend if you can drop a friendship over not getting into her panties? Or were you just after her panties? Loving and wanting a friend HURTS, pure and simple, and you have to support that person even if it's not what YOU want them to do. All relationships have to have a friendly base. Love can't exist without friendship, etc. To be able to say "You want me on a different level, but I'm still going to treat you as an equal" takes balls. It hurts to be passed over when something seems obvious. I was passed over twice by my dearest friend, passed over twice while being told that how much she "wanted" us and loved ME before she went to bed with someone else, passed over while she made no attempts to get what she "wanted" even when I made the selfish decision to leave that you're talking about, yet as a friend first I had to accept that it didn't change how we got along. It didn't change that I still wanted the best for her. A friendship is not based on attraction. Eventually I got my way, but if I'd stormed off because I wasn't actually her friend? I wouldn't be here now. It hurt, it still hurts, but it's not about me (thank, Dr Phil). See what I wrote above? Someitmes it's not obvious while it's there. Ask yourself, Chris, are you her friend....or are you attracted to her and hoping that getting along will follow second?
So Danielle and I went out to dinner one night (ah, $60 dinner tab, on someone else's money! I love my job!), and shared video game store war stories and much music. The big night, though, was to see Harry Potter because we are le dorks! Being a comic whore, though, I'd have paid just to see the Superman Returns trailer. Potter was decent, a good family fantasy flick with no realist strings attached, still....my favorite is Azkaban. The Superman Returns trailer....we got some classy looks, too, as after the trailer ended I spurted out "That made my nipples are hard enough to cut glass." "Mine too." "Ohmy."
Wow. Um. LONG entry. I think I'll save more stories for later.
Austin in January....just gotta finish the paperwork. The money coming in is helpful....it's not going to fix my budget plan, but making triple is definitely a big hand.
Time managed to fly by and drag more this time around, somehow.
Firstly, ouch. My health. Prior to leaving, I was quite happy with the changes I'd made to my diet and excersize routine. Of course, since being in New Orleans I haven't had the time/resource to do these things....my excersize has varied as the work has, and certainly hasn't been as strenous as what I'd be lifting at home. Then there's the eating....when the company is picking up the tab for everything you eat AND providing unlimited supplies at the "dorm"...well, you don't stay hungry much, and you try LOTS of new food. I've actually been eating at LEAST three times a day, as opposed to my prior two times a day diet. I tried the lifting today and wow...my body is unhappy with me. It says it's time to lighten the weights and work back up to it. Alas.
Ours was the first bus to arrive, and as I wandered into the almost empty facility I wondered if anyone would be returning-Chris was supposed to be coming back, would he actually make it so we could rock the Quarter bars again? I'm slamming my shit into my locker (a surprisingly easy task, since I only carry one bag, whereas other people have....loads more shit they bring) and I glanced to my right-holy shit, it's James/Jimmy! He was supposed to be gone! He'd be around for another 2 weeks also, rocking rock! We commandeered a corner of the facility for ourselves and whatever little group we assemble. It didn't take long to find our little niche group once others started arriving, but sadly it never matched up as well as James/Chris/myself. We decided to head down the road to the Olive Garden for a bite to eat on someone else's dime.
Dinner at the Garden being, of course, hilarious. 4 straight guys, 2 homos, and no shame. The elderly seated near us were traumatised, constantly stopping and glaring in an indescribable face. I don't blame them, when the table across from you gets a bread stick that looks exactly like a penis. And when the breadstick is then stuck in the zipper of a guy who looks like a girl. And two other guys then proceed to bite off the breadstick. Oh, homoerotic hilarity, how I love ye.
The working, this time, varied wildly. My least favorite parts would have to be deep freezer installation:you know, when you go to a grocery store and there's freezers for meat, and ice cream, and dairy, etc; and you KNOW that there's an even bigger colder freezer somewhere else for the stock....yea, guess who got to work in the (eventually) frigid cold installing those things then building the shelving stuff etc inside them? Farking COLD! After a few days of that, my skin...my HANDS....knuckles reddened and cracked, every fold of skin dry and flaking, ugh.
Had a load of "fun" working in a car garage, installing the tire racks and organizing those. The tire racks were FRIGHTENING, since to create a second "floor" steel grates were just slammed on top of the shelves and more shelving put on there. The whole place was nasty, the "pit" below (for workers to get under cars for oil changes, etc) hadn't been cleaned yet and had a broken...something...that was spewing nasty bubbly green water. It took almost three days to get the tire racks all set up since I had to do it all by myself-sure, I had "help", but they were useless. They couldn't understand how it was supposed to be inventoried, nor how I was arranging it to minimize the amount of walking around people would have to do. "Why are you labeling the backside of the racks? Put it on THIS side. That way, you step into the racks and you can see TWO shelves worth of stuff and immediately see where the divisions are. Your way, people have to walk back and forth and it isn't all left-to-right reading." "Huh?" *sigh* So aside from the confusion of getting it set up (and argueing with the frigging bluprints I had), I eventually resigned myself to putting all the tires in myself. My guys didn't like to read more than a few characters....so, for instance, a tire that is P165/14R-BW-XTRAC-VIVA2....well, no, they wouldn't seek out the specific slot (because they couldn't bother to learn what those codes mean, how/where they're written on the tire/shelf), they'd look at the first set of numbers and stick it anywhere in the P165 slots (if I was lucky, they might put it in the correct R slot as well)...even after explaining that if they were that confused, then look for the P and R to find the right area, then find the correct slot by looking at the bar code. See the last three digits of the barcode on the tire? The barcode is also written on the shelf, and no two tires are going to share the same last three digits, I've already checked. Got a P205/15R-TOR2-HGTH-URAD but can't (WON'T) find the detailed placemarker? Now you can go to the 205's, find where the 15Rs go, check the last three digits of the tire's bar code and look for those three digits in that area. Easy, right?
Fucking WRONG. Couldn't even do that. We got almost "done" and had to tear the whole thing down again. Unhappy camper, I was.
On the plus side, someone was taking pics for a magazine, and got a GREAT shot of a clearly confused peon. I'll put it below.
You know, again, let's skip the work details. It was tedious. Nuff said.
I missed those showers so much....the heat never ran out, though again it caused SERIOUS skin issues. It only made my hands WORSE, every fold/wrinkle/flex in my skin is cracked. This time, though, we had a new problem. It would seem that someone(s) didn't comprehend what showers and toilets were for....since I know of at least 5 times that someone found that a shit had been taken there IN THE SHOWER STALL.....urine on the floor....fucking heteromerican males. No problems like that in the female's facility....ohno, the worst problem THEY have is couples taking a long time in the shower while others are waiting.
I could write volumes on what I observed of human behavior in those places...another fine reason I avoided military service. Being crammed in close quarters with hundreds of other repressed and insecure males? No thanks. The things I heard, saw; sickeningly sad.
James had been trying so hard for over a week, hitting on a lovely young lady (who instead of being younger than me actually ended up being a decade older!), a cute redheaded girl that wasn't really my type. "Dude, don't mess with her, she's so mine. I'm gonna get that." Yea, fine, no worries. Not interesting looking enough anyway. THEN I saw two tattoos....and a conversation sparked....and modeling, then Suicide Girls was brought up. A week of work, James had almost nothing to show for it; ten minutes and I have her applying for SG and letting me do the photography. Proud to say that it went well, just as every person who's ear I've whispered "SG" into has. Too bad I can't get a finder's fee!
As opposed to last time, where the drunk nights outnumbered the sober nights, the opposite was true this time:more sober than drunk. Instead, I went for quality over quantity. One night, though....less than good. Nearly fatal.
We'd left the shithole bar quite inebriated, and our driver was supposed to be sober....we cram 6 people into a tiny car (sorry Kevin, you're the smallest, you get crammed into the corner corner and have your balls crushed again) and head down to the French Quarters. Only an hour left until it closes, but enough time for a few drinks a few tits and for the girls (James and I were the only males) to do a bit of dancing. I'm not a fan of drunk driving, or any kind of inebriated driving....but our driver was sober, so I was content....until the car began to fill with an acrid smoke, coming heavily from our driver. Great. Stoned, drunk, cracked out, whatever, all BAD when on the road. As we tear down a crammed Canal street on a Saturday night, parked vehicles and military police in the medians, it was already tough to see the tiny curb side STOP markers....we approach an intersection and I see through the parked cars:an even bigger vehicle coming down the cross street at an equally fast speed. We meet in the intersection, with a screech of tires a chorus of screams, a hard thud and a swerve, I can't tell if I yelled "Stopstopstop!" loudly enough or even at all, I see the other driver's head hit the steering wheel and then my own head hit the window, a moment of blurryness and darkness....and....we're slamming to a stop in a sidestreet and parking in a crumbling building/lot? Did we just run?
The chaos of the night didn't end there, though....
I would, the next morning, see in the newspaper a headline about the first shootings/violence in the Quarter since it reopened-I was still too drunk to really comprehend the article, but it looked like the Quarter and explained the events that were unfolding as we left...
Trying to get out of the Quarter, traffic was oddly backed up...and police-LOTS of police-were all running towards one area, ambulances tried to force their way through, MP vehicles cut off traffic and blocked, we had no idea what was going on or where they were going....apparently there'd been a shooting situation. Either the cops were bored, or it was serious.
Interestingly, violence followed the next day as well:upon our arrival in the quarter, medical workers were loading up a man who'd been shot in the head, practically between the eyes. Not as much blood as you would expect, surprisingly. (I realize I'm going WAY out of chronological order, since I am now describing my last night there while still many stories of other nights remain) THIS....was a helluva night. We've detailed my getting James' crush nekkid, now we have another (of several for a change) story of my swiping the gold from under some poor bastard's nose. In most of the bars/clubs/strip joints on Bourbon, there are people known as "Shooter Girls". What they do is walk around scantily clad or less, carrying a rack of test tubes filled with various brightly colored alcoholic beverages. Basically a fancy shot. The point is to get tips in addition to the money for the drink, and they typically persuade you by allowing you to get your drink in an innudeno filled way. Typically you'll drink it from their mouth, or do a body shot, or they'll shimmy you down and pour it in your mouth, etc. The cost of these things is ridiculous, and they enjoy preying on people who don't know how it works...."Hey, now you owe me money!" I'm trying to enjoy the band playing, and brushing off a very persistant shooter girl. Older guy, his first visit to New Orleans, going CRAZY over the girls walking around and uhoh...my shooter girl has him in her talons. Just because she's offering it, that doesn't make it free, buddy....anyway, so he gets his shot-she slides the test tube in her mouth and has him suck the fluid from the other end of the tube....and now they're argueing over money. Seems he doesn't want to pay, and I don't blame him-the cost is practically triple what it should be! She comes back to me AGAIN, and I shake my drink at her to indicate I'm good, thanks. She slams down the tray and grabs THREE of these things by the mouth and turns back to me, and as I start to open my mouth to finally yell at the girl my crotch is grabbed, her face is slammed into mine and leaned back we go....somehow, I didn't miss a DROP of it. The empty tubes are taken from my mouth and shoved into my hand, she smiles turns around and...tweaks her nipple at the older guy, then walks off. I'm...confused. I didn't pay? I have only a few bucks on me if she comes back? That tasted great? The older guy is...looking at me like I just insulted his mother? "What the fuck, I had to pay $25 for a shot!" Wellsir, I guess some of us are just lucky like that. Everyone wants to try and get the stoic guy to smile! He went to the bar to pout, and I went back to enjoying the music.
Shooter girl came back 4 more times with various liqours for me, and never asked for a dime. I don't know what I did, but goddamnit-I am GOOD. First time I've ever done a body shot, too!
Wandering towards the Dervish to show James one of the best nonBourbon places, I nearly broke my neck doing a double take:passed a restaurant where a clone of Darren was eating. I snapped back and slammed to the window and....it looked just like Darren, but he was with noone I knew and didn't respond to his name. A few shots here, hey hey, time to move on. Let's cut through the rainbow district and get back to Bourbon! We stopped at a place...I can't remember the name, some kind of Irish pub type thing where they were grilling hotdogs and cooking chili outside....it looked nifty, but I had to stare at someone:she had INCREDIBLE facial tattoos. Strange population mix in there, more "goth" type than there were in the Dervish. I finished my examination of the intricate markings on her and the other bartender; with a shot-shot here and a shot-shot there. Tried to explain to James how good times actually end up making me feel even worse than I usually do-I'm always miserable, but a good night can really REALLY chap me and make it worse for days. Back to the quest for Bourbon! Rainbow, ho!
Street vendors. Bob bless them, particularly the one that James was on a first name basis with. We slammed a few more shots, and then got a few free samples...."Alright, your crafty sales tactic worked. We need hurricanes!" Wait, I need a third and final shot sample to make sure...
Eventually we made it back and picked up a few friends, determined to expose them to this place (I cant remember the name) near the Rainbow district, a corner bar, very dark and medieval, lit by candles, and serving up the meanest (and largest!) Voodoo around...and for only $6! It tastes like grape Kool-Aid! HUGE cup!
It was during our times down there that I again became "The Man"-a gay man in one arm, a lesbian in the other arm. To look at them, there was no mistaking their gender or sexual preference, but I....what the fuck did *I* look like in that bunch?
Again, we stop for the drinking and the dancing (well, no dancing for me, I simply can't), and I had a WONDERFUL first experience:I've never had a guy at a gay bar buy me a drink! Lo and behold, someone bought me TWO! A "shot" of Jager and a "shot" of Crown, though apparently in gaytown a "shot" means "plastic Dixie cup full". Either very generous, or someone REALLY wanted to get me drunk(er). I couldn't really tell what he looked like (drunk, dark, more concerned with the drink), so my response to the question of "what did he look like?" is bound to become classic:"He had a shirt on. Probably cotten, I couldn't tell."
....um. stuff.
The ride home was horrifying:we were being picked up in a rusty old truck, and it was raining heavily, we crammed people into the back of the truck....the driver was a SPEED DEMON. You probably don't know this, but I am TERRIFIED of bridges, especially bridges over (troubled?) water. It's a miracle I didn't vomit everywhere, as smashed as I was, as sick as I was, and as frightened as I was.
Most of the Quarter nights were.....frustrating. If ya know what I mean. Next time you look up the word "blue" in a dictionary, you may see a picture of my genitals.
Other interesting events....ran into an old high school friend, Heather. She still lives in Pensacola, which is only about 2 hours from New Orleans. She is convinced that the old Kevin is still alive somewhere (and my recent adventures do suggest it's possible) and is intent on finding him. "The boy who danced in the car seat to Spacehog on the way to a zoo is dead." She's put some pressures and suggestions on that I'm really unsure how to take. Apparently she'd been looking for me for YEARS, even taking out personals and ads to try and find me....she named her first child after me. There is a child bearing my name (well, not my last name). I know I was your best friend, Heather, I know you loved me. I hear it from every person who's sought me out. I am loved for what I do and how I do it-not for me, who I am that never got to be and no one ever found. No one ever cared to even look for it. No one sees me while I'm there, it's when I'm gone. "You don't know what you've got, until it's gone." You remember me for the things I did for you. All I do for you and you STILL ask me to play only your way. When would I get mine?
The most entertaining of the nights, though, involved no drink and no sexual tension, surprisingly. Me buddy Danielle and I got together a few nights. This also ties in with another tale of "Whoops! Kevin took the rug out from under you!" I was working with a schmuck named Chris (who thought it would be funny to roll a tire downstairs at me, causing a helluva leg bruising) who, during one "conversation", make mention of his friend Danielle who just got a Punisher tattoo on her back. Wait, what?! Danielle who works at Rhinos? Yea, I know her! Of course I actually know her, what the fuck does that mean? Ooooooh....an online crush, eh? Well damn. It was time to twist the knife-I called Dani to ask about him. Yep, they sorta know each other and she can't stand him, and he's focused on getting into her pants...failing horribly. Gosh, you know, I turned down the option, Chris, could have had her but chose not to. Did you ever see THESE pics that she took and sent to me? Oh, she tells me those weren't for other eyes. Well, I guess it's a good thing you only saw those few, she wouldn't want you to see the rest. Ohyes, I've spoken to her about you, and yea-you feel she's unattainable because, I quote, "I AM unattainable-for him!". Sorry mate.
Despite enjoying watching him squirm, I had to give a LITTLE hope and enlightenment to him...he was talking of just leaving her be, though he considered her a good friend. So it came to the talk....where you really need to understand what a friend is, and what truly loving a friend means. Are you really her friend if you can drop a friendship over not getting into her panties? Or were you just after her panties? Loving and wanting a friend HURTS, pure and simple, and you have to support that person even if it's not what YOU want them to do. All relationships have to have a friendly base. Love can't exist without friendship, etc. To be able to say "You want me on a different level, but I'm still going to treat you as an equal" takes balls. It hurts to be passed over when something seems obvious. I was passed over twice by my dearest friend, passed over twice while being told that how much she "wanted" us and loved ME before she went to bed with someone else, passed over while she made no attempts to get what she "wanted" even when I made the selfish decision to leave that you're talking about, yet as a friend first I had to accept that it didn't change how we got along. It didn't change that I still wanted the best for her. A friendship is not based on attraction. Eventually I got my way, but if I'd stormed off because I wasn't actually her friend? I wouldn't be here now. It hurt, it still hurts, but it's not about me (thank, Dr Phil). See what I wrote above? Someitmes it's not obvious while it's there. Ask yourself, Chris, are you her friend....or are you attracted to her and hoping that getting along will follow second?
So Danielle and I went out to dinner one night (ah, $60 dinner tab, on someone else's money! I love my job!), and shared video game store war stories and much music. The big night, though, was to see Harry Potter because we are le dorks! Being a comic whore, though, I'd have paid just to see the Superman Returns trailer. Potter was decent, a good family fantasy flick with no realist strings attached, still....my favorite is Azkaban. The Superman Returns trailer....we got some classy looks, too, as after the trailer ended I spurted out "That made my nipples are hard enough to cut glass." "Mine too." "Ohmy."
Wow. Um. LONG entry. I think I'll save more stories for later.
Austin in January....just gotta finish the paperwork. The money coming in is helpful....it's not going to fix my budget plan, but making triple is definitely a big hand.