Mardi Gras: Being Sleazy in the Big Easy

I don't even know where to begin. With that first part of the blur... or the middle part of the blur... or that time I was shot at...

Look, Mardi Gras in New Orleans is kind of like life on the moon. You can't really say what its like unless you've seen it, its crazy as all hell, some of it probably has to do with probing, and its crazy as all hell.

You really think of it as one big giant booze fueled orgy with beads, beers, boobs and bordellos... But really I only saw a few of those things when I was there. And during the day time its completely different. There are lots of families out to collect beads, drink beers, admire boobs, and possibly patronize the bordellos. Seriously.

There were families with little kids that just brought bags to the parades and flung their children over whatever police barracade was in their way in order to HORDE BEADS. I've never seen anything like it. What are they food? Did i miss something? They are plastic right? WHY DO YOU NEED WHOLE DUFFLE BAGS OF BEADS. And really I think that whole flashing thing is over-hyped, I didn't see too much of it. I only had one girl flash me when I was there. Granted, I was flattered. But I was also with my enormous 6'5" friend, and she could've just mistaken him for a carnivorous predator and flashed her "false eye spots" to confuse him into thinking she was a much larger, and hence inedible prey.

But I digress... The real point of me sharing this with the world is to get the real point about New Orleans as a city itself. Honestly, nothing there made sense. Everyone was seriously drunk or drinking seriously, the cops were the meanest people around, and every person I met on the street became my best friend simply because I was standing near them. It was like the entire city was just one big hapenin' spot that no one new about because you had to be a friend of someone important to get in, and because we all new that one friend but not each other, we were instantly trustable and someone you'd want to introduce to your daughter.

But all was not so... So my giant friend and myself happened to be patronizing a Krystal burger on a Sunday evening (that's like a knockoff White Castle, by the way... NOT a bordello) and we go in and order and everything and are waiting around with lots of other people for our food when my friend says he hears fireworks.

Well lo and behold someone comes running into the joint saying "Everybody get DOWN!" And of course, people liking to do what loud people tell them, all hunkered down on the floor to get out of range of any stray bullets. I kind of thought it was silly since I hadn't heard any evidence of gunfire, but I soon changed my mind when I saw a uniformed police officer outside running--piece out and pointed down, Jack Baur style--and decided that I too would join everyone on the floor. This didn't last long of course, because my order was called almost immediately, so I just kind of held my hand up at the counter and magically an unafraid and seemingly battle tested Krystal Employee handed me my delicious, delicious bag of whateverwedecidedlookedgoodwhenweordered.

We go upstairs to a second floor eating area, thinking it might be a little safer from stray gunfire, but a cop soon comes up and tells us we should leave, and to have our ID's ready and we're going to be frisked. I finished my burger (we still had more) and threw any trash and weapons I happened to be carrying at the time (they were ample) and walked to the door where some sauced, 40 something, crazy, peroxide blonde was screaming at some drunken highschool kids. Don't worry, I was as confused as you are now. I have no, nor cannot produce an explanation as to what was happening. This happened a lot. Moving on:

We go outside get frisked and ID'd and I thank the officer for handling the situation and I'm glad they have so many horses in a major metropolitan area. He pushes me. I thank him again. This is leading to yet another story of a shooting... no joke. There was more than one.

The night before, my friends and I strolled back to our Hotel (near Canal and Bourbon St. Awesome location... who found it? Ahem) and found that the street it was on was blocked off by police tape. What the hell? My friend would later relate his experience to me as the following:

So I ask the cop that was rolling out the tape what happened and he said
"Please step away, sir, I am an officer of the LAW." (A police version of
flashing your eyespots) I told him that I was sorry, but stayed at the
hotel that was currently being quarentined and wanted to know what happened.
He got really irratated. "SIR, you are invading my personal space
and I'm going to ask you again, for the last time, to move back. SIR, SIR!
You're not moving back fast enough, I AM AN OFFICER OF THE LAW. Move back faster. CONTINUE TO MOVE BACKWARDS."
Apparantly backing away slowly, with your hands in the air isn't good
enough anymore. I guess it was a good thing that he yelled at me as I
backed up slowly instead of me TAKING OFF RUNNING and him shooting me.'

I concur with all of this.

That is not all, nor nearly everything I can and will divulge in a semi-public setting. I mean after all, I have a serious internet reputation to hold up here. But I can and will say that if you ever go to New Orleans... Go out, Go hard, but Get the hell in a hotel before midnight because that's when all of the shoostings begin.

Best party ever

So far...

Do Not Be Like Me, Do Not Watch Roadhouse

There is hair in my whiskey as I write this, but I don't really give a fuck. Nor do I give a fuck that I've played Third Eye Blind "Semi-Charmed Life" about ten times in the past hour, trying to bring back memories of my life before I went down the left hand path. And I certainly don't give a fuck anymore about how I spend my Friday evenings. That I rented Roadhouse this past Friday night is proof of that much (the bachelor life is just fine! I've got the carcuses of three roasted chickens from the local Safeway on my computer room floor and one more in the living room, next to my Glock!)

What to say, what to say....Roadhouse is what I watched when I was supposed to be reading about the collocation problem, sorites arguments, and the recursive analysis of virtue. But who wants to do that? Patrick Swayze came onto my screen and a peace washed over me. It is his silent and sure manner. The manner that all good action heroes must have. They rebuff the most beautiful women in the name of principle, they fight and beat men twice their size, and they always have a cool and edgy zinger up their sleeves (metaphorically speaking: Dalton, Swayze's character, is shirtless for much of the film). And though not a universal feature of the action hero, Dalton follows the venerable tradition of having an old mentor. In his case, it is Wade Garrett, played by Sam Elliot (the narrator in The Big Lebowksi). That deep, canorous voice is still there like always, except this time, it emanates from a body that knows kung-fu.

The plot is, well, you need not concern yourself with the plot. I could have pleasured myself to select Facebook pictures, folded some loose laundry, and cleaned out my car at any point during the film without losing my sense of storyline. Needless to say, it is about a roadhouse in Kansas, and that means, in addition to the physical structure of the building, you get all those things that roadhouses have in the Hollywood world: tits, razor-tipped boots, martial arts showdowns, and blind musicians playing behind protective wire-screens.

Your life is probably going too well right now to bother with such a film. But if you start to hover above rock-bottom, and you've got the money for a rental, check out Roadhouse and get one step closer to becoming yours truly.

"The sky it was gold, it was rose,
I was taking sips of it through my nose,
And I wish I could get back there,
Some place back there..."

Commercials: Essentially Mini-Movies

I have to admit, folks, I am a little hard pressed to come up with material this week. I haven't seen a new movie since my last post and my attempts at reaching back into my childhood for classics weren't working for me on this post-bowl Monday. I am, however, still buzzing from the assortment of small cinematic feats that sprinkled themselves over my 'Superbowl Sundae'.

In comparison to the last couple of years, we had some solid winners. But in hindsight, I guess anything is better than watching a half-ass American Idol mouth the words to our national anthem. Why don't you just wipe your butt with the flag, Sparx?!

Regarding the commercials, we had everyting from Justin Timberlake getting the crap beaten out of him to cavemen in beer commercials. There were a couple I didn't understand: Did anyone catch the two animated commercials for sales leads that were border-line racist? Each featured stereotyped minority personalities. Maybe it was just me.

What these lil' treasures give us are small, concentrated explosions of punchline. At prices in the 7 digits to produce and put on the air, writers and creators alike do the darndest to get their money's worth. We see plot, rising action, climax AND resolution in 30 seconds or less. Now, granted I am fully use to a 30 second climax (sorry ladies), these ads take us places that commercials the other 364 days of the year do not. Perhaps it's just the atmosphere and the alcohol that allow for such an effect, but I'd like to think that the ad agencies say to themselves "let's give the folks something special this year" and go to town creating material that runs along side the excitement of the game itself. What other televised event can you think of that causes people to shut up DURING commercial breaks?!

I am stating the obvious here but it needs to be said. Where would we be without these entities of the t.v.? Do you really think that the corporations make the money back they spend as a direct result of the ad itself? NO! They do it for the glory. They do it because it brightens people's lives and gives them to talk about on Monday. We salute you, Super Bowl commercials. God knows the game isn't always exciting (this year's game sucked for the firt 3 quarters), but you give us something to hold onto in addition to our nacho plate and Coors Light.