NOLA 3: With a Vengeance

Every time I head out to see my friends in New Orleans, I feel compelled to put up a note on the front page so the one or two people who read GS know absolutely every aspect of my life.  Right now, for instance, there’s a 12 year old kid outside screaming “I’m going to fucking poop on you bitch!”

I pay top dollar to have a scenic view of my apartment complex’s Dumpsters, where children of all ages gather to throw rocks at the metal sides 24 hours a day, seven days a week, including holidays.  Throwing rocks at Dumpsters, slack jawed and unblinking, is the primary form of entertainment for children in Silver Spring.  According to a recent study, it’s pulled slightly ahead of huffing propane and has long since eclipsed squeezing Sterno.

There are two gay black guys about my age who come out on weekday evenings to smoke, talk, and also throw rocks at the Dumpsters.  They don’t live together and, I think, each have wives.  But they hide under the trees and make out after sunset, and each walk tiny lap dogs that I call Yin and Yang – they’re the same breed, but one is white and one is black.  The dogs, too, stare slack jawed and unblinking as rocks are thrown at the Dumpster.  Absolutely every single living creature at my apartment complex is on serious psychoactive drugs, I think.  Even the birds will sit on the railing of my balcony and stumble around, or just stare eerily at me.  And I won’t even talk about the squirrels, who occasionally come bursting through my walls in a squealing panic.  Actually… They probably need psychoactive drugs so they’ll stop fucking doing that.

My previous New Orleans posts have pointed out why you should read the writing of my buddy Ryan.  (Magic internet link here and here.)  Ryan is secretly involved with GS, as well, under the top secret codename Cassander.  All his new stuff is here.

Don’t tell anyone, okay?  That code name is just between you and me.

Ryan drinks too much and scares me and, sometimes, after he drinks lots of bourbon, I think he’s going to sit on my chest and start punching me like Tyler Durden did to Jared Leto.  Because of that, he reminds me of my family, so I always feel at home.  Though he needs to work on being distant, loveless, pessimistic, and cruel to really be family.

At Ryan’s shotgun house, I sleep on a couch with a psychotic cat perched on my chest and, for this visit, the newest family addition, a medium-sized dog, watching me with hungry eyes as I try to masturbate before anyone wakes up at 5am and sneak shots of cheap whiskey.

Ha ha.  Just kidding, Ryan.  Also, you ran out of Kleenex the last time so I had to use your socks.

Anyway… I’m writing this on Saturday the 2nd at my thankless weekend job and will schedule it to post this coming Thursday.  My plane leaves BWI Thursday morning, and I’ll be launched into that wonderful machine.  Arrive far too early and wait, reading a book, watching the seats at the gate fill up.  Then shuffling onto the plane and squeezed next to some idiot.  Then a short layover in Atlanta, which is an airport I end up sitting in at least twice a year.  Then land in NOLA in the afternoon and, you know, start drinking.

This will be my 35th birthday.  I try to be out of town for my birthday, or binge drinking on my balcony, naked and waving my penis through the rusted metal bars while screaming at ice cream trucks. Thank god for NOLA, eh?  Where everybody is waving their penis and screaming at you!

I started writing this with the idea that it would be my excuse for not updating.  I won’t be back until Tuesday… But, then, I programmed some silly thing about my birthday for Friday, and a good Sunday archive, and Ryan will be posting something Monday (probably at gunpoint), so it’s not like you’ll miss me.  In fact, between The Boble, my retarded novel, and the archive shit, I have about 100 articles programmed through the first half of 2010.  And there’s still most of the New Testicle to do, and 300 pages worth of my novel.  The Sunday Archives will run out first, around September.  But then I’ve recently unearthed all of my Purple Publications shit, so that’ll fuel a whole new phase of the project.

In fact, I can go ahead and die and all my friends can pretend I’m still alive as, blindly, GS automatically updates with horrific shit I wrote when I was 15.  Awesome!