2001-07-10 - 10:16 p.m.
"I see you shiver with antici . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pation."
They have this game down in New Awlins called "Greet the Dawn," which consists of drinking your way to a new liver and not leaving the French Quarter until the skies are as chalky-hued and dimly-lit as your eyes and wits.
It was put to me: "Wanna play?"
Oh, if I must.
Stumbling back to the ch�teau to sleep, the new sun already scorching the city and scraping its metaphoric fingernails down the euphemistic chalkboard of my apocryphal soul, I'm feeling like something the cat coughed up, wondering if my promised game prize of a Purple Heart might actually be a literal one. Victory is bittersweet, with an extra dash of bitters, bartender.
Rang up a few appointments that I missed, explaining quite honestly that I had had too much to drink last night. Curiously, they seemed to understand and even approve. Dangerous place, this.
"It's not easy having a good time. Even smiling makes my face ache."
My last day in New Orleans was spent in the usual way. You know, drinkies starting in the late morning and not letting up for a goddamn moment, a minor heat stroke while waiting for the claptrap streetcar, an evening of pool (both the billiard and swimming varieties) � and a gun pointed in my face. Yawn, yawn, status quo.
"...thrill me, chill me, fulfill me, creature of the night..."
Oh, the gun thing? Right then: Picture The Marquis and I schlepping home from the Doctor's pool, carrying a large poster ripped off a pole that shouts "NO MORE DRAMA." Enter the quiet, peaceful streets of the Garden District, one of the most beautiful and poshest of neighbourhoods in the country, if not the western world. From stage
left, enter a be-dreaded chap circling aimlessly on a bike, speaking in a bizarre dialect called (I am informed) Ebonics.
Scragglepuss pulls up next to us and points his darling little pistola. "Habba dooba dabba wotcha got za-balla doo?"
The Marquis is as confused as I, so he holds up his poster: NO MORE DRAMA.
Our new friend either can't read or has no intention of following the poster's suggestion as he cleverly elucidates, "Grabba beeba WALLETS a-zooma doob!"
We dutifully open our wallets and offer our tokens of appreciation to the man � said tokens equalling seven U.S. dollars and eight pence.
Our net worth is clearly not satisfactory. "Y'ain gah nuttin' ail? Zabba!"
We shrug our shoulders, utterly at sea.
The man breaks out with a big grin and laughter.
"Hi," he introduces himself politely (this being the Garden District and all), "I Darrel. I'z just fuckin' witchoo. Dis ting ain reals. Ha-ha-ha. I from New Yawk, y'know. Dat's how we do da shit up dair. Y'all have a guh nigh. Zamma namma." He shakes our hands and pedals off.
Well domo arigato to you, Darrel! And a yabba-dabba-doo, too.
The Marquis and I exchange a look that might best be described as "befuddled," stuff our cash back in our wallets, and go home to ponder on the balcony over absinthe-and-tonics.
"I'm shaking. Did that just happen? Look at my hands."
"Did what just happen?"
"Yes, exactly. What just happened?"
"Pablo � I don't know. That was bizarre. I'm so confused. I'd ask you not to let this taint your judgement of New Orleans, but it's tainted mine and I've lived here for years."
"Should we call the cops?"
"And tell them what, that a black man is biking leisurely around the garden district not robbing people?"
"New York is rather far by bicycle, isn't it?"
"Only 1200 miles or so. Tough ride in this heat."
To bed, to ponder, perchance to dream.
A suitably cryptic farewell to New Orleans.
See you back in jolly old Brittoria, popkids.
"It's not often we receive visitors here, let alone offer them hospitality."
(The above piece was a guest entry written by The Marquis de Deja Du attempting to write in the inimitable voice of Se�or Kickasso. Author's apologies if I failed in delivering Pablo's usual searing wit. It's been a long week.)
