08 April 2010

moving experiences vol. 1

I am convinced that Las Vegas is my muse. There's really no other excuse for my prolific efforts of writing when I'm here (maybe, as Jamie Foxx would say, maybe it's the alcohol). And although there are a number of "The Hangover" quality of experiences here, and I've been involved in more than one of them, most of my time in this town is spent chillin' in oppulent hotel rooms, eating fine foods and playing poker, and occasionally blackjack.
I'm almost positive my oldness
forces me into a position where going out and, as I would describe as "put my dick in the mashed potatoes" which for me in my early Vegas days was not some quirky metaphor fo sexual relations, I was actually trying to find a buffet, and put my dick in some ACTUAL mashed potatoes (apparently, it's the sign of a good party)...

...that being said, watching people pretty much lose their minds in
Vegas flashes me back to my first (and, ironically, only) Mardi Gras experience...As I explain the story, I feel there is a need to provide a modicum of context to why I was there. Obviously, it was at a debate tournament. I was attending Missouri Southern State College (what do you mean you've never heard of it, it's the Southern Utah of the Ozarks, bitches!!), and the admin was losing their shit (they say it was because we missed mad classes, i say it's because we weren't clearing, but I digress). They said we needed to stop going to tournaments that ended on Mondays (which took us off the national circuit, and the only reason I went to that terrible institution- I was the only National Merit scholar on campus at all, which was totally fucking depressing- I also met that fucking suckubus Karina there- fortunately her insanity found another home, unfortunately, it was my boy (sorry Rob, would have "Saving Silvermaned you, but I assure you I was persona non grata, even if she didn't know what in the fuck that meant) that took it in the JT Shortz. But, as they say in the hood, "better you than me, nigga!!". But once again , I digress... ...so, after a day of "debates" (done entirely by 2pm, as to facilitate a true New Orleans experience), we pile into old Van No. 26 and head down to the Big Easy and start the Madri Gras experience. We're not staying in New Orleans, but are instead staying in Hammond, about 45 minutes on the other side of the lake, so we had plenty of time to get ourselves mentally ready for the experience. We arrive, and park near the Superdome (a large landmark, to help us find the car later), and start trying to find Bourbon Street. The first clear memory was having to use the facilities, and beginning the trek of futility. Anyone that has been to Madri Gras understands the harrowing experience that is trying to find a rest room (similar to highway 58 between Bakersfield and Barstow, where on the way in, I saw a guy dropping science (or, a duece) on the side of the road). Well, I walked into the bar that finally let me use the restroom, when i find myself pushing through what j could only have imagined was the line. Boy, was I wrong. I get to the center of the circle to find two dudes, on their knees sucking a woman's tits. Which. Was. Awesome. Even more telling was the comment a guy that I can only assume was the owner- he tells me I "can suck on them titties too, for no cover. Just a 15 minute wait."

This was going to be an insane experience.

After finding a restroom (no, I didn't suck on some titties, just seemed like a really bad idea, although when I left, a cop, let me repeat and emphasize, a cop in uniform, was on his knees, sucking on some titties on the way out, so the legal side I was initially worried about, clearly was no longer a concern), I decided to find my posse, who I had, for some reason, assumed I would spend the rest of my evening with. Because the parade had yet to conclude, we just hung out, drank these things called Hurricanes, which tasted remarkably like that low-budget Fruit Punch some of us frequented in my youth. I had no real frame of reference, so all I knew was people

were throwing beads, and I'm pretty fucking competitive, so I ended up with a shit-ton of these beads, including A LOT of really cool, intricate beads with a ton of faces and things written on them. I had no idea that these things could be utilized as a particular means of currency. So here I am, The Big Easy, drinking on the streets, in front of cops, grabbing all these beads. If they had told me at the end of the parade, "That's it, dawg, time to take your asses home," I'd still have felt I'd had a good time. But after the parade ended, the streets opened up, and someone said "Let's go to Bourbon Street." I was under the impression that we were on Bourbon Street, but by now, I'd gotten pretty drunk (the parade was unusually long and/or I drank these Punch flavored beverages like water, or more accurately, like Punch), and was just up for where the evening was going to take us. Little did I know what was in store...
...we walk what seemed to only be a couple of minutes, and make a turn and there it is. Debauchery. Sin. Insanity. This. Is. Madri Gras...The first thing I see (and, honestly, my last clear memory) comes when we turn onto Bourbon Street. We round the corner, and there's a guy, standing on the balcony of one of the apartments/hotels. He's standing on the railing, and shouting this phrase..."I'm gonna jump!!" The crowd, in typical Madri Gras mood, shouts at the guy "Jump! Jump! Jump!" Amazingly enough, this dumb motherfucker just stage-dives off the balcony. I will repeat this. This motherfucker jumps off the balcony, into the crowd. Even stranger than this, the crowd fucking caught him!! After the dude gets into the crowd, he walks up to the hottest woman he can find and says "I just did a stage dive! Let me see them titties!!" The woman immediately pulls her shirt up to show her lovely lady lumps, and the crowd goes wild...
...i would go into more depth about what actually happened the rest of the evening, but I honestly have no fucking idea what actually happened, all I can really say is the rest of the evening worked itself out into small snapshots, that I tried to piece together, but to no avail. The last full memory I have is that there were approximately 25 people in old Van No. 26, and I'm not sure how we all got home, nor do I really care (can't imagine who drove).

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