where the street has one name: bourbon
I had other people with me in this picture, but they’re both attorneys, and I’m not sure they want to be associated with this post or this blog, so I cut them out. Besides, is there any reason this picture–which is clearly the new definition of the word “perfect”–needs any complementing? No. And if you’re wondering if two of the necklaces feature a nude woman riding on a giant penis, the answer is “yes.”
My trip started with my de facto partner’s missing the flight. Jackass. Who leaves his house too late for a trip to New Orleans? Not me! I arrived right BEFORE they shut the escape hatch (and before the airline realized that I have two cases in litigation against them right now–which is why I used my military ID instead of my GA drivers license…you know, as a diversion). Luckily, two guys in business class were other attorneys I knew, and they split the shuttle to the hotel. I tagged along.
The conference on the first day was good. I think. I sat in on a session or two and then started eating oysters and drinking beer at The Acme Oyster House. We returned for the afternoon session and then went to a bar at The Roosevelt. Because that’s what classy Southern barristers do at 4pm. We ate somewhere and then went to some bars. My Twitter stream indicates I was sending messages to Katy Perry at 4:44 and still at a bar past 5. I remember seeing a street covered in garbage and fire hose streams as the sun flirted with the horizon when I hit the hotel elevator.
Lunch was Friday’s first meal. I sat in on the latter half of the seminar and then went out again, stopping at Galatoire’s Restaurant for dinner: truly a “to do before you die” dining experience at an establishment over 100 years old. I even refrained from acting an ass. Sort of.
We went out to a couple bars and then greased a bouncer’s palm to get a balcony to ourselves above a bar called Cats Meow, where I once went onstage to sing “Sweet Home Alabama” on a trip during undergrad 15 years ago, because I like nostalgia and a good view.
I mean–does this not personify class?
Of course it does. I signed up to perform in front of the throngs but apparently got too distracted to hear them call my name. I signed up again but got forced out by my companion at 2am over–I was told the next day–great, profanity-laced protest.
I attended the seminar the following morning while my companion rode on a float in the Tucks parade. I attended a crawfish boil by a vendor but had to leave because of my uncontrolled shaking and general misery. I began to worry that I had not adequately trained for this event and that I might very well die. I walked Bourbon alone for a half hour or so before returning to the room for a nap. I was defeated.
Just as I thought I might actually fall asleep, roomie busted in the room and demanded that I don my gay pirate outfit and sneak into a Mardi Gras Coronation Party. I walked up to the bouncers; they checked everyone’s wrists; I was in the middle of a pack; I got through. MTV was there filming these guys. I’m probably in the background with a chicken leg in one hand and a bourbon in the other, trying to regain some semblance of coherence with that dog hair trick everyone talks about.
Then, it was time for a conference-sponsored costume party on a Bourbon Street balcony. I was in such disrepair that I stood in front of the bartender for a full 45 seconds before finally requesting a water. 20 minutes later, I stood in front of him another 45 seconds before requesting a Crown and Coke (I never drink Coke, but I felt caffeine was a must at this point). He just shook his head and poured. It was 7.15pm.
7 became 8 which smacked into 9 then melted into 10 before molding into 11 and collapsing into 12 prior to colliding with 1. Party over. Time to shuffle back to the hotel to get ready for an early Sunday morning flight.
One last look out the window Sunday morning, and it was back to the airport.
And back to this:
Thank God I can go back to work and be a normal person for 4 days until I go to San Antonio this weekend.