Naw Years In N'awlins

The last few discordant notes of Auld Lang Syne had barely settled into the crowd of inebriated revelers, and I was already bent over a New Orleans toilet, flushing out The Old toxins and ringing in The New.

Yes, Aught-Four was a puke-a-riffic New Year for me, and, although I did manage to get laid, I’m almost a little ashamed to admit that I spent more time huddled around a toilet shitting and vomiting uncontrollably than making sweet, sweet Greek Lovefuck to all the beautiful ladies. Emboldened by the spirit of Ignatius J. Reilly, my flatulence knew no limits during the 48-hour jambalaya and hot sauce-fueled extravaganza.

The first day out on the town, I proudly consumed a delicious bowl of spicy beef chili – I say “proudly” because that particular bowl of chili marked the 30th day in a row that I had eaten chili during at least one meal. Jay and I wasted little time drinking, and, as a result, there are precious few pictures from January 30. However, we did enjoy an evening of light-hearted, family-friendly, Caucasian-oriented comedy with Mr. Rudy Ray Moore, also known as Dolemite, The Human Tornado, Petey Wheatstraw, The Avenging Disco Godfather, and the Hip Shakin’ Papa to “all them scandalous white bitches who like to get they pussies sucked and fucked by big, greasy black dicks,” (his words, not mine).

Of course, it being New Orleans and a drinking occasion, it was only a matter of ticks and tocks before Thomas arrived – this time sporting an outfit that was best described as “Superman goes to a gay bar – a very gay bar.” Personally, I think anyone bold enough to wear red vinyl pants and a sparkly, bedazzled red shirt and still order double shots of Jamesons deserves the benefit of the doubt. You’re all reasonable people – you make the call.

No one, however, could doubt Jay’s masculinity, especially after the impressive shows of testosterone he put on for the crowd: carrying not one, but two drunken chicks on his back through Jackson Square, and faux-vomiting in their faces. Delish.

There was no vomiting of Lucky Dogs, however – after 5 hours of power drinking, I wasted no time obliterating a most unlucky Lucky Dog, to the absolute disgust of the hotdog vendor.

The last day of 2003 kicked off appropriately with another bowl of chili at the Déjà vu Café, Bloody Marys all around, and an extended, early afternoon stint in Monaghan’s Erin Rose – a small, laid-back bar on Conti Street. Rarely do I start popping shots of Jagermeister before the sun goes down, but since this would be the final day of ’03, we spared no brain cells.

Thomas, Ramsey and I began plowing Jager and whiskey before the clock chimed noon, and continued into Big Daddy’s, a dilapidated titty bar with some of the blackest, sleaziest skankaroni me and my dollar bills have ever had the misfortune to meet. I’m no amateur at the shoe show, but this was the first time I’ve ever heard, “For $200, you can do anything you want, baby. We get some privacy in the backroom, and I’ll suck yo’ little white dick right off.”

I wonder - does she use that line with all her white customers, or am I special? Either way, she refused a picture, but a candid one I snapped later in the day reminded me of her charms.

Drinks begat more drinks, and before long our party grew heads. Jessica (philosopher, part-time food wrestler, and full-time weirdo) and her cohort, Brandon, from the ATL arrived after an all-day drive. Christian, a friend to Thomas and an enemy to sobriety, delivered us from shitty, tourist-stuffed Bourbon bars and to cozier, backstreet fare.

As the clock struck something-or-other, I closed 2003 in much the same manner as I lived 2003: I vomited on Jagermeister, took a huge dump, and stumbled drunkenly to a strip club (Rick’s Cabaret). What can I say? I’m just that cool.

Thanks to everyone who helped to make 2003 an utterly forgettable year: John Ashcroft, the Wachowski brothers, Ashton Kutcher, Ruben Studdard, Saddam Hussein, the Florida Marlins, Laci Peterson’s fetus, Bennifer, flaming shrubs in California, flaming shuttles in space, Paris Hilton’s mouth, SARS, Justin Limbercock, little white girls, big black athletes, Rush Limbaugh’s vicky hook-up, Michael Jackson’s errant fingers, R. Kelly’s errant urine streams, metrosexuality, totally X-treme! television commercials, limp-wristed redecorators, Islam, Judaism, Christianity, and the corpses of Mr. Rogers, Barry White, Strom Thurmond, Bob Hope, Lester Maddox, Johnny Cash, Idi Amin, John Ritter, Wesley Willis, Dr. Atkins, Nell Carter, Hume Cronyn, Charles Bronson, Fred Berry, and a fuck-ton of people who don’t warrant mention because they will never do anything as cool as Rod Roddy.

Here’s to Aught-Four not sucking as much!