Irish

I was going to have a quiet day today, seeing as for some odd reason I drank a couple of bottles of wine last night by myself after passing off my "Hip-hopping for the Handicapped" tix, and found myself stumbling to Miss Mae's to buy a pack of cigarettes and not very long after that continuously taking 5 minute "breaks" from my drunken phone conversation with my lurver to make myself vomit the entire contents of my stomach so the room would stop spinning when I laid on my bed.

Thank god I was in a sorority and could learn the delicate gift of making oneself puke up all alcohol at the end of the evening so as to avoid a serious hangover. I have a very special technique for fast and efficient results, but unfortunately I can't share it because some stupid pre-teen will think it's a technique for vomiting up food rather than toxic substances. And then I'll get sued. But I can offer the hint to not wait until the toxic substance has left your stomach because there's no getting it back after that point. I've known people who have mastered this technique so well they can actually empty and refill several times in the same evening. They are truly gifted.

But anyway, I got dragged out to see NOLA's annual St. Paddy's Day Parade in the Irish Channel. I could NOT care less for the St. Paddy's Day Parade because it's a lot like Mardi Gras, except worse because it's purely locals and pretty much everyone in New Orleans is an alcoholic. And they're not even those awesome kinds of alcoholics that can drink and drink and drink and never get quite drunk. They're more like frat-boy alcoholics and it only gets worse as the day goes on.

Last year I walked over and caught the tail end of the parade, and I kid you not, it was like being in the middle of a fucking military coup. People were lying all over Magazine Street passed out in their own puke (obviously ignorant of trick, supra)), people fighting for no reason and screaming, and mooning each other. At one point a riot police van drove down the street and people from a second story bar just started pegging it with beer bottles. And then they just started pegging beer bottles at other moving objects, like people. And then some anonymous fucker pegged me in the head with a potato, and that was the point where I decided it was either go home or hate human beings forever.

And then after all that, on the way home all these boys kept stopping me because I was "Irish" and since I get this a lot since I am very white I said "I'm not Irish" and then they'll say "What's your name?" and I'll have to make up a non-Irish sounding name like "Hezebiah" because my real name is the fucking Gaelic name for Ireland. But then one guy was all like "Can I kiss you? I want to kiss an Irish girl today." He was slurring so much that HE kind of sounded Irish. So, I just repeated that I wasn't Irish and I also have mouth herpes, so that was the end of that.

This year was much the same except I actually saw the parade. The one bonus is that the throws are much better than Mardi Gras throws. I got a pack of Ramen noodles. See, those are useful. If another hurricane ever sweeps through this city and I am stuck in my house avoiding armed rioters, would I be able to eat my Mardi Gras beads? No. I'd probably have to eat the ramen dry and like swish the spice pack around in my mouth or something. But still better than beads made in China with a potentially hazardous level of lead content.

So, I'm home now.

The funny part about the Irish Channel in New Orleans is that it's like 75% black. Most of the reason for that is that the houses are cheaper in that area and all got left behind when the schools integrated and whitey decided to head up the road to Chalmette, which is a very scary place. HUD also built the projects there, which is interesting because what better encouragement for underprivileged minorities to pursue self-sustainability than by placing them in a neighborhood named after a nationality who is very fond of the "n" word. And I'm not talking about using it in rap songs. But it's all okay, really, because people on welfare just love irony. That's why on the thankfully few occasions I have to speak to them I use a lot of sarcasm. They like it.

Walking back from this mossy-colored melee, I stopped in to a little Chinese take-out place, which is not great but is handy. In front of me, a stick thin woman wearing rollers was having an argument with the guy about how expensive the Combo meal was. I agree that $10.35 IS expensive, but buck it up. I pay like $13.00 for lunch everyday because that's how much a salad and a smoothie costs and god help me if I want yogurt in the smoothie. But I decided not to tell her that because I don't really know what it's like to have to live off of welfare, or the crack pipe, and she kind of looked like she had both of those going on at once, which was making her poorer than richer. So, she finally gives up and changes her mind and I almost think of cheering her up with a comment like "Yeah, probably a little cheap for your tastes," but she's already out the door and I don't feel like running after her. Also, I might feel bad for and end up buying her dinner. And $10.35's kind of frigging expensive for a first date with a crack whore.