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eighteenth october | four post meridiem
When it's time to potty we will potty hard
It's only superficially true, in an urban-legend-I-just-made-up kind of way, that the aquarium is the only place in New Orleans where you can't get a drink. There only the humans are denied service: as Pablo can confirm, the penguins were a little too sleepy, and the jellyfish bobbed and squirmed less gracefully than usual. In fact, I think the whole thing is a scam, a covert way of marinating the still-swimming seafood in a giant tank of chardonnay. Not that I'm complaining - the oysters were excellent.
You can mimic your favorite fish outside the aquarium by dunking your brain and liver in copious quantities of fermentation; this we did, and if I don't drink again for a month it'll be too soon. NOLA was sick wicked fun, but it also exhausted me far more than any other city so far. Meism, Slutboy and several others were our guides; I have vague memories of drinking a wine that "tastes more like your father-in-law than your mother-in-law" (?) between courses of a gratis six course meal at a posh restaurant; sucking royally at nine ball on a black-lit pool table in a goth tiki bar; chatting with SB's housemate about his grindcore band ("We have no lyrics!" he emphatically pointed out. After taking a puff on his pipe he leaned in and added softly, "Sometimes there's grunting.") I know I'm still disappointed we couldn't go to the lifers' (as in prisoners serving life terms) rodeo ("Best leatherwork in the state. You want a belt, that's where you go.") What else? We raided the password-protected inner sanctums (sancta? sanka?) of Harrah's casino and the NOLA film festival, where they complimented us with drinks. Trudged down Bourbon Street, taking in the roar of the vomit and the smell of the crowds. Umm, drank. Drank a little more. Drank drank drank.
Yesterday: Graceland, then a 13 hour, 50 minute drive from Memphis to suburban near-DC Virginia. Arrived at 3am, where it was Potty Till You Puke, or at least until sleep took over.