drove to new orleans in a giant, green pick-up truck. the cotton exchange hotel. narrow city streets. trolleys. we devise a plan to jump two floors down into the outdoor pool room. realizing we will be drunk later, and in need of a dip. this never transpires. it's a dirtier city. everyone litters. just throwing trash on the ground. beers and/or liquors in hand, they sip and walk down the claustrophobic lanes and avenues, without thinking twice. a beautiful ancient city. at least old. a beat up jalopy. some restaurant, and i decide to try some alligator. breaking my vegetarian streak, initiated through poverty. it tastes like chicken. a strange group surrounds me. a bottle of displeasing red wine. i drink it all anyway. and become drowsy. sitting alone at the bar smoking cigarettes. in a brown shirt. vodka tonics. exit. art galleries litter the block, along with seedy bars. what a combination. drunk fat middle aged gay men in soft pink button up shirts. they try and force me to drink a radiation green coloured beverage dubbed "the hand grenade." it has "this will make you puke" written all over it. i politely refuse.. i forcefully say no fucking thank you. bourbon street. absolute debauchery. and i do "the robot" by myself amidst it all, in the middle of the crowded street. cigarette in hand. blues man "big al." they call him "jabba the hut." for a reason, mind you. i use the WC at the oldest bar in the country. converse with funny drunk ladies. vodka tonic, no lime: $5! old white man plays the keys, covering jimmy buffet songs. and for the first time in my life i slightly enjoy "margaritaville." some pirate/blacksmith started this bar in the 1600s. got caught with a rich man's lady, so they threw them in the marshes to drown in an embrace. so the story goes. condoms on the curb. i trample the many bead necklaces strewn about the streets. and have assured the group that if anyone even tries to put a bead necklace on me, i'll break their knees. i find them to be trite and tacky. more robot in the streets. we cross "the violet line," and some middle-aged man with a goatee in a cowboy hat storms out of the gay bar screaming, you people are sick. i laugh and psychoanalyze. breasts, and the bearing witness to the bare male ass popping out of a mini skirt entering some transvestite club. some random bar among millions. a worn looking hispanic man in a camouflaged tank top plays the electric fiddle. innocent bystanders are forced to hop on stage and play the washboard. i hide in the corner like always. and can't tell if i'm watching the hilarity or the horror. he plays the accordion now, backed solely by a drum machine. more vodka. back to the streets. i attempt to take everything in, but there's just so much happening it's overwhelming my senses. people dance, and it amuses me. heading to one-eyed jack's. then to some other bar, i'm not really paying attention anymore. stop touching me, i'm not feeling affectionate. and you ma'am are drunk! i'm tired now. body rejecting itself. to an irish pub. where the irish band covers ramones songs, incredibly surreal. i sit at my table alone while they dance. i smoke heavily, and drink their beers. stumbling home, past the police, the drunks, the buskers, the kids sitting in doorways, the hobos, the bachelorette brigades, and that extremely fat, half-naked man sleeping on the sidewalk, i find myself pleased to be where i am. and the world seems full of promise. lying in bed, i finally realize i'm drunk, when i have to close one eye to read a piece of paper. curl up in the bed spread. she attempts to steal it back from me. i'm told i informed her it wasn't going to happen. in the morning we drank slim fasts. the end.