Begin: On the road

End: New Orleans

The drive from Beer City to New Orleans is not a brief one.  We didn’t remember to bring CD’s or load our I-phones with any songs, so that made it a lil bit longer.  For those of you scoffing at us for not streaming tunes from our supa-phones, you go ahead and try and find a G, let alone three of them on the road between Bumble-Fuck and Boon-Dock.  It ain’t none, so save for several road side picnics shared with the charming Mr. Gorilla, the day was quite monotonous.   As a result, when we pulled up to our Hotel in New Orleans at around 2AM on Halloween night, there was no way in hell we were going straight to bed.  Mess had to be made, and it had to be made at haste!

If you’re familiar with the Crescent City then you’re familiar with its laws or lack there of.  Most particularly in regards to that Devil’s water.  They don’t really give two fucks where, when, why, or how you’re drinkin’ (ed. note: long as you ain’t drivin’)(ed. note: I think).  As taco stands are to the streets of Los Angeles, as Pizza joints are to the streets of New York, as hippies are to the streets of Beer City, liquor stores are to the passageways of the Big Easy.  If you need to go looking for one, you will find it.

I’m not going to humor you with the number of times that Gorilla and I entered into one of these potion distributors.  I take no solace in my ability to consume that swill in quantity.  It’s a sickening habit, one that all kiddies should stray from, but one that they will all inevitably be drawn to.  So I figure if you’re gonna have to do something anyways, might as well do it really skillfully.  So just know that if Gorilla and I left a place to go to a place, or went to a place to leave a place, or basically, when we stepped outside while in New Orleans, we found a little pint bottle situation (ed. note: New Orleans being the only fucking place that you buy pint bottles on the reg)(ed. note: because they’re so damn portable, don’t even ruff-up the pleat in your pants)(ed. note: no I don’t wear pleated pants).

So now that aside, further we can delve with no need to rehash the issue.  I myself have now traversed through New Orleans two times in my life.  Both times I have against my own instincts begun my exploration of this town by taking a deep breath and wading through the filth and crust that is the remnants of Bourbon Street.  If you haven’t seen it, well it’s difficult to fully draw an accurate portrait, best I can sum it up is to say that it’s everything that’s wrong with America.

This is what you want to think, when you think Bourbon St...

This is closer to what you usually get... Yes, they are real.

 

I met a fuckin' jugalloo! How gangster is that?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a look don’t touch situation on that street.  As in, I don’t touch the people, the food, the bars (ed. note: unless it’s blackout time), I’d rather not have my shoes touch the ground, but they don’t have hover boards yet, so fuck it, I dare.  Because it is some serious grade-a-holy-shit-is-that-a-person people watching, and I’ve got to at least see it once per trip.  Especially on Halloween, when the freaks really, I mean REALLY, do come out in full force.  Also, on a slight side note, ninety percent of my African American (ed. note: black) brethren in NOLA are rocking the Denard Robinson head locks, and that is a fucking beautiful thing.  I take pride in my college’s dynamic quarterback, and entire secondary looking like extras from a Predator movie, and I support an environment that fosters that culture. 

His fingers are saying "fuck you." His hair is sayin' "TOUCHDOWN!"

 

She has no idea that the chick to the left is upstaging her...

 

 

I don’t support an environment that smells like syphilis and looks like a genital wart.  That’s Bourbon Street, and I got off that as soon as possible, albeit only after I was offered street drugs by two different elderly men and one not so elderly.  I forgot to ever mention that I seem to have something about me that makes sketch-balls think that I want to buy their street drugs.  I really don’t (ed. note: taken out of context), but they do sometimes provide for good conversation and memories (ed. note: the salesmen, not the street drugs)(ed. note: both)(ed. note: shut up).

From Bourbon Street it was on to Frenchman’s Street, which on Halloween apparently dresses up as Bourbon Street, because that shit was all sorts of ill as well.  I met a chick dressed like a nurse and although she kept telling me she had a boyfriend.  I kept neglecting to believe her sincerity.  That was until we left the bar together and she found her “rock-star” boyfriend passed out in the bed of a pick-up truck covered in vomit and clearly riding the dragon while dressed as a woman.  I don’t know about you guys, but when that’s going down and it’s three AM, where I come from they call that bed-time.

Unfortunately we weren’t where I’m from, we were in New Orleans, and that meant walking back down Bourbon Street, which meant that we had to stop into what I guess is the modern day version of a black music club in the French Quarter.  When I’m saying this I’m saying it in contrast to like a place where shit used to be jivin’, jumpin’, blues, jazz, that type shit you see in the movies and on the smart people TV channels.  This being the modern day version it was T-Pain turned up HARD on repeat (ed. note: not on repeat, just seemed like it) and asses to pelvises, and fucking, just grillin’ hard with gold teeth and flossy type shit…  This of course was the scene that Gorilla and I needed to be at around four thirty AM.  What came of it (ed. note: not that I was expecting anything) were some thug life pictures of myself and some other hard type stuff, and I’m gonna share that with you today, a little cameo, because fuck man, wow, in this pic I look like P-Diddy, mixed with Lil Wayne, mixed with Tu-Pac, mixed with other cool dudes, and you the people should get to see me in that form, as it is my true one.

Words not needed...

I told them not to raise their glasses to me, but they insisted...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By five AM we decided we’d raged satisfactorily for the evening and took it back to the streets, and went back amongst our people.  See what I mean by “our people” in the photo below.  Which shows what I’ll probably look like after my P-Diddy years subside, and I’m left to wallow in my DMX post success phase…  It’s nice however to know that even then I will most likely have loyal friends.  Like Gorilla, who had earlier that night tried to pawn me off to a couple of party boys who liked what they saw, and then later tried to have my sins washed away by a roving preacher (ed. note: homeless guy with extra Jesus pamphlets).

Foreshadowing of the afformentioned DMX post success years...Which I will also most likely spend with Willy Nelson.

What that means to say, is that if you’re going to be sitting on the side of a street with a couple of homeless guys at 530 AM sharing a bottle of liquor and watching two massive brothers beat the shit out of a little Mexican dude, then it’s best to share that experience with a friend.

Sadly, I did not sleep on the street with my new pal that evening.  I made it back to my bed, where I slept soundly through the night.  Knowing a recharge was necessary, as New Orleans is no lady to be taken lightly.  She smacks you in the morning with a shot of whiskey and let’s you know you’re going to have to do it all over again.  Only this time, music will accompany.  Tune back for the next round and I’ll spit at you about the dirty gift we left for Dead Confederate and why it’s apparently inappropriate to pass out on the floor of a casino with your hand down your pants…

Dude was dirty, not for halloween either...

 

He was actually dressed up as the lesser known wicked witch of the south... Double fisting is part of the costume, that witch was a drunk slut...

 

Track for the Day:  “Dancing on our Graves” by The Cave Singers, from Invitation Songs

Links for the Day:

You’ve heard of “Chach Rock,” I now present to you “Chach Rap.”  Ps. New york does not “salute you.” (via Prefix)

Read somefin!  That will make you watch more somefin! (via AV Club)

Hexy stuff… (via Prefix)

Not the same “Curbside” as in American History X… (via Pitchfork)

NAS-T… (via Prefix)

This a beautiful thing… (via Captain’s Dead)