The Booze Strikes Back

My first order of business yesterday morning was the casino. Strike that… making sure all my dangly parts where properly covered was my first order of business, then coffee, then it was off to the casino. Did you ever notice that most hotels that have a coffeemaker in the room have it placed conveniently in the bathroom? What gives? No matter, with a fresh cup of ass coffee in hand, I was off to the casino. I thought about hitting the poker room, but decided against it for two reasons. One being that I didn’t have the funds for such an event, the other being my unwillingness to spend a few hours at the table, which is normally the case. So instead I played a bit of Caribbean Stud.

I was doing well at first. Winning here and there. I was probably about $40 up after an hour or so. Then this frat boy, eyes shrink-wrapped from the mornings hang-over, lays a $20 bill on the table and asks, “So, what do I have to get to win?” I find this rather aggravating because not only is he wasting everyone’s time, but also because he sat down two seats to the right of me, the cards I was getting are now going to the person to the right of me. Why would you find this aggravating, you might ask? Well, the first hand after Captain Dipshit sat down; the guy sitting next to me got himself a flush. (Which was MY god damn flush). For this, he was awarded $200. (This was MY god damn $200). Don’t get me wrong, the guy was nice, and probably deserved it. I don’t fault him for winning; I fault Archie for jumping in and screwing it all for me. Ah, well. Such is life. At least I got to watch him lose his $20. I tasted redemption, and it tasted good.

Something I’m finding out about my visit here is that I stick out like a sore thumb. Not because I walk around with my Johnson hanging out like I’m a human compass, but because I can’t seem to understand anything anyone is saying. There’s no accent, there’s no slang… I just don’t get it. And it's definately NOT because I've been drinking most of the time I am awake here.

Someone asked me if my wife was a gambler. I’m not kidding when I say I thought he said, “Do you like white grapes?” I literally had to ask him 4 times what he said. Then, of course, I felt like an ass for making him repeat himself over and over again. At Starbucks, when we ordered an iced coffee, we thought the person behind the counter asked, “What the hell is that?” Of course, we responded with, “Well, it’s coffee, with ice in it.” The pride we felt from educating someone about a new menu item was quickly smashed to pieces when he exclaimed, “Uh, right. That’s why I asked what size was that.” I guess it’s not all my fault. At lunch I asked if I could substitute fries for gumbo. I felt that since it was hotter than two rats fornicating in a wool sock outside, I wasn’t in the mood to eat piping hot stew. The guy looked at my like I was completely insane. Then he said, “Uh. Yeeeeaaaah. I guess I could do that.”

On top of the language barrier, it is also painfully obvious that everyone, aside from the taxi drivers, is painfully slow. So slow, in fact, that if they weren’t trying to get a tip out of me for doing nothing more than the job for which they are paid, I’d think they were statues. There was a “we appreciate tips” cup in the Voodoo Mart a block from the hotel. Come on! These people aren’t shy about asking for a tip, either. Not only that, but they’ll also let you know when it’s time for you to tip, or, to tip again.

I know I’m making it seem like the indigenous people of New Orleans are oddities, but man, most of these tourists are far worse. It’s as if they lose all concept of reality once they step off the plane. Once the foot hits the ground, the camera is snapping away like a Japanese tour group at the Hoover Dam. I saw people posing with and taking pictures of fire trucks. It’s just a goddamn fire truck. That doesn’t seem to matter. They’ll waddle over, sit down on the back of the truck with their arm around one of the members of the New Orleans Fire Department and smile like it’s prom night. A friend snaps a picture; they quickly shove a dollar in the fireman’s tip jar, and head down the street lighting up the night with the strobing of the camera’s flash.

Well, I know I promised wild and crazy times, and they are soon to be discussed. I have many pictures, none of which I can upload from here. So, there shall be a few more installments of this epic voyage. It all depends on how many pictures and how much story content I end up having. As it stands, it looks like there will be two more New Orleans Special Edition posts. Stay tuned for Episode III: Attack of the 32 Ounce Hurricane.