Friends: I am starting a new job tomorrow! I’m not working on underwear catalogs in New Jersey, and I’m not doing Americorps, and I’m not preparing...
The other night, five hometown friends passed through New York to play a show. I’ve known them all for close to ten years, nearly half of our...
Oh I’m not gonna lie, it was a cold and rainy Mardi Gras. I started seeing “#rainygras” and “#hypothermiagras” on Instagram around noon and it was funny, but also no joke. I texted with one friend who had already thrown in the towel, another friend who hadn’t left her house yet, and another friend who was dancing on a boat in a parade because that girl can handle anything.
We stood for a while amongst revelers in the Marigny. I drank a shot of King Cake-flavored vodka. I ran into the piano player dressed in hospital scrubs. I heard a man in drag say, “The only three things I care about today are drinking, fornicating, and smoking weed.” I saw many people in brightly colored costumes holding umbrellas, but also I saw topless women, their torsos covered with strategically placed sequins, because they just didn’t give a fuck and were going for it.
After about two hours in the ceaseless rain and the 35 degree weather, I brought everyone to a party, a beautiful, heated house, where there was fresh-baked bread and gumbo and we stayed there for a while, warming our bones, admiring all the costumes, loving everyone we met. I read a few palms, and I believe I am getting better at it. I think I have a new hobby. Then it was back outside. On Frenchman Street I had a little Mardi Gras meltdown. I couldn’t just stand around in the rain any longer.
We walked to another house, this one in the heart of the French Quarter, where a kind man fed us bread and cheese and Italian sesame cookies and we admired his gorgeous home, the decades of art and books and life, his attention to detail, his gaze, and his tiny, damp, green courtyard. There was a cat named Oliver. I sank into the couch. We all agreed that we had just one stop left in us.
I left the group to meet up with Anderson at Erin Rose, a bar just off Bourbon Street, a classic French Quarter joint. There I had a bit of whiskey and I talked to the owner of the bar for a while about dogs, and he told me a story about what happened when he took his bulldog to the ocean in California for the first time. Which was this: The dog heard the first crack of the crashing wave and he began to run, and this bulldog ran delightedly for two miles, his owner chasing him the whole way, yelling for someone to stop him, until finally a child was able to grab him. And I kept replaying this image in my mind of a bulldog running on a beach in the sunshine, and it pleased me so tremendously that I knew it was time to go home, because it was going to be all downhill from there.