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Let's go to New Orleans... tomorrow.

Issue Date: Friday, May. 13, 2005

So, I was over at Doxie’s site and reveling in the fact that she was telling me what a sexy motherfucker I am.

Wait a second… come back here. She was. Dukay was too. He WAS. They both have love for the Sue Sue.

That’s right. That whole post was directed at me and not the plethora of drooling hordes that descend upon her site every nanosecond pushing refresh to see if she’s updated yet.

That’s right bitches. Me.

Ok, so it wasn’t directed at me.

But. BUTT. And that’s a big ol butt. hell yeah… (heh.) It did remind me of New Orleans.

Mister and I were in New Orleans, his first time… my… millionth. I love New Orleans. I love the sultry sound of the tug boats out in the harbor. I love the way the haunting jazz notes coaxed from the horn of a lonely saxophone player on the corner of Toulouse and Royal Streets just hang in the humid air like they have a life of their own. I love the nightlife, teeming with so many voices, songs, dances and stories; everything blends together to make a perfect tapestry.

The food. The FOOD. Just reading the words will never do it justice. Most people eat to live, but in New Orleans they live to eat. And that particular motto shows in the way they cook, bake, broil, sculpt, prepare, conjure, construct, or bring forth their meals. Crafty… they are. The oysters don’t taste like the oysters you get from Joe’s Crab Shack ya’ll… they taste primordial and rich with life. The crawfish… oh momma… the crawfish. Park me in front of several pounds of freshly boiled crawfish… hot… with new potatoes and corn on the cob and some ice cold beer at a bar in New Orleans with a jazz band playing and I will be one happy woman.

Mister and I had partied late into the night the evening before at Pat O’Briens, at 544, at the Cajun Cabin (with Mitch Cormier and the Can't Hardly Playboys… Hey big Papa!) and several other clubs, so that day we wandered all over the French Quarter taking in the sights. We went into the art district and then over to the French Market and to Café Du Monde so my love could have a beignet. We walked around the square and then went back up to Bourbon Street to get a drink or seven.

When we got to Bourbon Street from St. Peter we decided to take a right. We found this little bar called the Funky Pirate. The Funky Pirate is about the size of the 1976 Vega hatchback that my mother drove for about forty-three years. There was a palpable wall of smoke falling out of the open door and the air conditioning was on artic. The tables were small, rickety and sticky and I immediately fell in love.

Mister and I walked in… no, let me correct that… Mister and I jived in… jukin to the amazing voice that the fellow on stage possessed.

The stage was the size of a package of frozen peas with a stool and a drum kit and this big black man took up the whole stool. He rocked that mic like it was his baby momma. (Holy shit. Did I just say that? I am so fucking white.)

We ordered a case of beer and lit up and relaxed in our sticky little seats. Smiling at each other through our sweat and sunburn. What? It was June. In New Orleans. Equals hot as hell, sticky, lovely and very sweaty.

The rest of the people in the bar were tore up from the floor up (Note to Anne… they were pissed, drunk as hell). They started a conga line that took all of seven steps to complete the circuit of the bar and they were having a grand old time. The drunken white girls were dancing all up on each other in front of the guy who was singing and he started to laugh a little and cheered them on.

The old lady who was running the bar (with her bun) kept trying to get us to buy more beer. We’d take three sips, and she’d rush over, “Have another sir? Ma’am?” The bartended was just watching the game on TV and the rest of us, including the guys in the band were watching the drunken people.

What a show.

The guy who was singing kept telling us that
BIG AL CARLSON will be coming on stage two hours….”
A little later…
BIG AL CARLSON will be coming on stage one and a half hours….”
A liiiittle bit later…
BIG AL CARLSON will be coming on stage in one hour and seventeen minutes….”

Um. Ok. The guy singing was already pretty darn large. How BIG could BIG AL CARLSON be? And we were already enjoying the show, especially when the sets would line up something like this.
1) Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone – Bill Withers
2) Let’s Stay Together – Al Green
3) She’s Gone – Robert Cray
4) Jesus Loves You – Traditional
5) You Sexy Mother Fucker – Prince
The man was a genius.

I danced I sang, I got all sorts of sweaty. And damn if I can’t remember that guy’s name. But every time we’re at church (or anywhere really… this is an anytime fun affair) and the kids sing “Jesus Loves You” Mister and I turn to each other with a glint in our eye, wink at one another and mouth the words… “You sexy mother fucker.”

Oh, and on a side note? BIG AL CARLSON? Fuckin huge. Bigger than a package of frozen peas, I can tell you that much.


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

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