The People's Exhibit A (davidology) wrote,
The People's Exhibit A

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Gays are just better tippers

New Orleans night life was fun. I was a little disappointed to find the clubs not as crowded as I remember them being in previous trips, but a couple of locals explained to me that it was because Southern Decadence was last weekend, and many people decided to just chill this weekend. I can understand, I guess, it's like that here.

As is required by law, I was faced both nights I went out to the French Quarter. I was a little surprised by my cab driver though. I'm not sure why, as these do seem to be the more colorful parts of these visits! As she, unprompted by me, began to explain the previous weekend of Southern Decadence, when both gays and the Southern Baptists were in town: "I can't say anything bad about the gays as far as tippers go. They tipped me good. I got a $25 tip from one of them on a $15 fare."

I'm thinking, "Shit, I better reach deeper in my wallet, lest I give my people a bad name." But then again, I thought, I'm not so sure she knows I'm gay.

But then she continues, "But I have to say. And don't get me wrong, I have nothing against the blacks," as I sunk a bit in the chair. "They don't tip at all."

Reminded of that Seinfeld episode, I think to myself, "I really don't think we should be talking about this." (Or should I say, SHE shouldn't be. I wasn't). Anywho, normally, I would say something and walk off at this point, but at 50 mph, that might hurt.

Despite the smaller crowds, I arrived both nights safely, and sticking to that corner, I managed to go home with my wallet both nights. The few guys I did meet were friendly, but I did miss the naked go go boys, the throngs of grabby bois on the dance floor, and the long schlong contest I'd witnessed on previous visits (hottt).

Oh well, maybe they'll be back next time!

I flew out at the butt crack of dawn on Monday a.m., just in time to miss the hurricane that may very well wipe out the clubs I've grown fond of. Unfortunately not soon enough, however, to avoid getting food poisoning from the little breakfast place at the airport.

I was so looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, but Tuesday morning I woke up, fully clothed, legs on a bean bag, staring at my ceiling, TV and lights still on. Evidently I decided to lie down for a second on my way to.... Hell, I don't know what I was doing, but I was sober and just beat. So, last night was my first night sleeping in my bed, and it felt good.

Let me tell you though: I've been having some weird ass dreams. Last night, I dreamt I was partying with Whitney Houston, and she brought me a chocolate shake (the second time chocolate shakes have appeared in my dreams in the past couple of days). I'm sure it means something. But, yeah, there's my b0ring New Orleans story.

And just because I know everybody loves puppies. Meet Pebbles and Zack:

Then, these pics I found on the web of the certain death I narrowly (lol) escaped.

This first pic I found today on one of their freeway cams (the imprinted time was oddly set 10 minutes fast). Nonetheless, it's kind of foreboding:

These are two shots taken from the International Space Station of Hurricane Ivan. At the risk of sounding like one of those all-too-morbidly-excited geologists describing an earthquake that just resulted in loss of life, and in all deference to those who will have to weather the storm, if you step away from the human element for a moment, it is one amazing looking storm. Of course it's an inescapable, natural process of a living planet that reminds you nature is truly an awesome force.

That having been said, it's good to be back home in my own bed, not under that monster, under the (mostly) clear Santa Monica sky. Now time to get me some much missed Fatburger!

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