National State of Alert:
(as of 3-8-04)

Personal State of Alert:
(as of 3-8-04)

Reason for Personal State of Alert:
- So this is post-college life? Really? *shivers*

- The Passion of Christ featured a deleted scene where Christ called me out and told me "You're next"

Featured Links:
Diaryland.com
OnlineOnslaught.com
MSNBC.com
QuietAmerican.org
MoneyCentral.msn.com
Tremble.com
Weezer.com
Fool.com
GirlsArePretty.com

joelthecat.diaryland.com

Mardi Gras
2004-03-13 - 5:06 p.m.

Fat Tuesday (English for Mardi Gras!):

I decided to head out in all-blue with my Gato Loco wrestling mask since it was Mardi Gras, and I could get away with it! Zulu was the first parade on our agenda, and it started early; so I dragged myself out of bed a little after 7 am and pretended that didn't bother me.

We got to our usual parade watching location, and I immediately found that my masked self was going to be upstaged by Emily and Amanda's Hooters girl tops. The love for their youthful perkiness was evident through all the goods thrown at and handed to them. Beads, kisses, flowers, prized Zulu coconuts, and trinkets went to them often- and to top it off, Amanda got her very own cucumber-dildo AND "deluxe" vibrator from the floats. There was no way I was going to match that prestigious prize. I did end up with one Zulu hand-painted coconut, but this is after I picked it up from over the guardrail, after it seemingly "pooped" out from behind a horse. Hurray!

We stuck around for the second parade- Rex, long enough to catch the parade opening LSU entry- "The Golden Band from Tiger Land." A lady across the way was holding up an opposing college's bumper sticker as they approached. This elicited calls of "bitch!" from Emily, and worse, encouragement to throw a Zulu spear or a heavy pack of beads at her head from Jesse's mom. Luckily, violence was avoided, we cheered on the band, and made the long walk to the French Quarter.

On the way to Bourbon and the Quarter, entrepeneurial locals were hocking freshly thrown Zulu coconuts for $20 dollars, and there was an aisle of vagrants suckering people into the "Find the Red Queen" or "Find the Marble" shuffling game where you can't win. Safely avoiding that tempting offer, our next obstacle was to again cross the barricade blocking us from directly crossing the parade route. A friendly cop dancing in the street helped us this time around, and we made our way to where the true craziness was happening.

There's no subtle start to things once you get onto Bourbon. The ground immediately displays its muddy, bead strewn filth, and the balconies of hotels all have people situated, looking down onto the action. For as far as the eye can see, straight ahead, are hundreds of small stores, clubs, strip joints, and bars, and the crowded masses lining the street are all very raucous and partying. Anywhere there was a balcony, a dense crowd is gathered underneath, trying to catch bead-throwers eyes. Bead throwers eyes were constantly aimed downwards, usually with their mouths yelling "Some me something!" with "something!" interchangeable with "your tits!" The intermittent biters would pull their shirts up, or occasionally unzip their fly, get a cheer from the crowd, and a catch of beads. Repeat this process over and over and over again, and you have one of the huge attractions of Mardi Gras in the French Quarter.

Another common sight were the costumes, which about half the time, were an excuse to show an otherwise illegal amount of flesh. Of the more covered-up types were an obese couple covered in pounds of (hopefully de-chiggered) Spanish Moss, and people in gorilla suits and Roman garb. More common were the half to 15/16th naked types. A pack of girls airbrushed on (admittedly artistic) tops to complete their outfits. One female was "the Naked Cowgirl," who's title was written on the seat of her tight denim, but was more obvious by her pierced, exposed nipples and gold cowboy hat. Men walked down the street in underwear and clothes entirely composed of bubble wrap, carry with them guns that appropriately shot soapy bubbles. Other times, the reasons for the nudity was less obvious and themed. I saw more than my share of large, hairy, bare male asses, and had to stop Jesse's sister and mom from suckering me into looking each time one passed.

We walked down Bourbon Street, trying to absorb a lot of the beautiful, decadent insanity while also desperately trying to stick together through the moist, beaded crowds. Our first official stop, after several stops on the way where the two girls were getting beads and "exposure" offers, was at Pat O'Brien's. I had made that my first stop two nights before, but elected to pass on their famous "Hurricane," letting Linda get two for her children and herself, instead. My goal, having already gotten the two strongest drinks, was to get a simple beer in the French Quarter for the first time. We walked the length of Bourbon for some time, taking in more tittied exhibitions, until we got to the gay district. Before I'd get my beer though, we stopped to catch the famed Bourbon Street Costume Awards.

Hosted by two of Oz's drag queens, the gay club sponsored event had a very large, bee-hived blonde dragster introduce the best of the day's costumes, and give out prizes. Costumes included a pack of people dressed as a family of chickens (including a massive Foghorn Leghorn), a man in drag named "Peppermint Twist" (who had a *huge* peppermint theme, with big candy canes going seven feet across and the same height upwards), and finally, the year's contest winner- a Purple People Eater. The costume for that person was again huge, and it took him several minutes to safely ascend the stage to accept his award- his costume tentacles and arms not functional, he probably had to accept his $500 check through his outfit's eyehole.

After the contest, I made a quick run across the street to the Bourbon Street Pub- returning again to a Sunday night location to snag my first French Quarter beer. With the knowledge that the cute male dancers were again dancing atop the bar, Emily encouraged our whole group to spend some time partying inside. The two Hooters girls got love even in the queer bar, by a sweet guy who wanted to put them in his pocket and keep 'em. While everyone (but Jesse) admired the missle crotched dancer and the cute one in board shorts, we danced in our spot to music like "We Are Family," Britney and Madonna mixes, and during one special moment- "Kyle's Mom is a Bitch." It was great watching the stripteasers try to work that song and realize it was hopeless.

We wound up spending quite a bit of time in the Bourbon Street Pub after we found the back way to the upstairs floor. There, we peed in overlowed silver toilets, and danced on the upstairs dance floor.

I returned with my second beer to find Emily with legs wrapped around a muscley gay dude, carried, swung around, and dipped by the homo. We danced a little more under the laser lights and smoke, spent a minute or two on a balcony, and finally headed back down. Before we left, Emily and Amanda befriended the cute dancer in the board shorts, tipped him, and took a picture with him, all helping him make up for the fact the "missed dancing with girls."

The gaiety did not end there, as we headed after to Oz, to which I'd never really been. There were more dancers up on the bar, and a mroe vibrant first floor adnce floor scene. While Linda (Jesse's mom) wathced on from the sideline, the girl's immediately started dancing away with each other, and Jesse and I danced nearby, letting them take the spotlight. They befriended an Asian gay dude from Chicago, and took him up on his offer to dance up onstage, putting on a show in the corner of the club. More pictures were taken, two separate guys thought I was the straight boyfriend of one of the girls (but that it was cute of me to party along), and we danced for a really, really long time.

Jesse, exposed as the dancing Emily's older brother, got an e-mail address and an offer (or an invitation) to move to Chicago from the nice Asian dude. I got a surprisingly fun experience in a gay club with the whole family I'm staying with.

And thus began the beginning of the end's... beginning. We caught a bunch more crazy sights on the walk back down Bourbon, including the number one most disturbing visual of the trip. A lady in her fifties, on a balcony, was looking down at us while suckling from the teat of another middle aged, pruney drunken lady. It was like out of a painting of the seven deadly sins. Surely that had to be committing at least six, or eight of them.

We gathered our things, said our goodbyes, and made the drive back to Baton Rouge. The skies dumped down waves of rain, and the darkened sky lit with vicious, close-by thunder. We arrived in the driveway safely though, wondering if perhaps God was trying to say something about the time we just had. I'm not sure, myself.

I did, however, take the discovered cat puke scattered in the apartment as a personalized message. BAAARF!

Reason for Terror # 82:

Using phrase "da bomb" unwittingly in phone tapped conversations could lead to arrest and beatings by the FBI, local authorities, and hip police.

Reason for Terror # 81:

There was a little bit of mold on that bread you had this morning.

Reason for Terror # 80:

When evening falls, you can try to drive away; but the moon will be following... always following...