Slobberknocking | Monday, February 15, 1999

Slobberknocking while wondering whatever happened to Jimmy Crespo:

I'm filing this column a little earlier than usual. As you read this, I'll likely be suffering through a monstrous hangover. It's my own fault, since I brought it upon myself. Usually, I don't have much reason to drink except the day ends with a 'Y' but this is a little different... I'm heading down to New Orleans for the Rite of the Drunken Cajun known as Mardi Gras.

I've only been one other time, in 1989. I was going to North Texas, living in Bruce Hall and bored out of my mind. Well, someone pipes up with "You know, Mardi Gras' going on right now." We packed up two cars and were out of the city limits inside of ninety minutes. Though it wasn't the first time I had been drunk, it was the first time I had been THAT drunk. It was also my first exposure to mass public nudity not related to South Beach in Florida.

Three of my friends had a similar sudden urge to brave the crowds last year, and they came by to see me right before they left. Begged me to go, they did. I had too much going on, so they went without me and have been bragging about it ever since. Well, we made a pact that at the very least the four of us would go this year, and we'd drag as many people along.

The folly in this adventure (as if it's not pure folly already) was that somehow, by some silent decree, I've ended up being the organizer of this excursion. I was placed in charge of securing hotel accommodations within crawling distance of Bourbon Street, as well as making sure we were in the right place for the big parades and heading to the right bars.

You see, people have this twisted opinion that just because I'm smart, that I know what the hell I'm doing. Well, the two don't necessarily go together. I didn't want to be the freakin' den mother of this field trip... I just wanted to eat my sack lunch with the rest of the kids and see the pretty animals.

Added to my initial discomfort of travel agent was the role of fund collector. If you've ever had to extract $100 from more than one person at a time, you know how much of a WHIP it actually was. Nothing is as awkward as playing Guido the Killer Pimp amongst your circle of friends, extracting the money necessary to ensure that the roof over our heads in Louisiana isn't nicely complemented by iron bars.

Somehow, all of the hoops have been jumped through, the requisite Ts are crossed and Is dotted, and all that remains is making sure my liver doesn't try to crawl out of my body screaming. Oh... and that there's enough film in the camera.

You would think that people haven't seen a bare breast in a hundred years. "Make sure you get plenty of boob shots!" "I want full frontal nudity on film, Pike!" Gawd almighty! Do I sit around in a gold-plated wheelchair with delusions of Woody Harrelson playing me in a Milos Forman film? Hell, no... although the prospect of Courtney Love still jazzes me, sober or not. But I digress.

My bags are packed, my beads are prepared, and my tolerance is at a nice level. Pray for me, fellow P-1s. I'm heading to the House of the Rising Sun, and it may the ruin of this poor boy.