March 30, 2015
I’m thinking about New Orleans. My favorite “New Awleen” heels, suede high heels that were purple and green and gold suede parrot shoes that everyone knew were my Mardis Gras shoes.
About skies that have partial clouds passing overhead and you are in sunlight and then in rain and then in hot sunlight again.
About a place where a California girl can’t lie out in the sun because the New Orleans sun is hotter and harsher than anywhere else on earth and will eat you.
“Hey Mister, Throw me some beads!”
Dancing in the streets, parades, a pounding drum beat.
A hand grabbing me by the back of the neck and pulling me backwards three feet in a Mardis Gras crowd, just far enough back a roiling fight passes by in front of me instead of over me.
A guy getting arrested for punching a horse. [Who punches a horse?] A horse a policeman is sitting on.
A restaurant with the best steak sandwich in town between cobblestone walls that used to house a prison, etched with centuries.
Dancing at Tipitina’s. Men with washboards they play better than most musicians play guitars.
Everyone dances. Men. Women. Children. EVERYONE dances.
And the kindness. I showed up in Louisiana a child of the road, a refugee, and everyone was kind.
My New Orleans will always be that place. The place where a beat up battered child of the road could show up and everyone would just say, Those are pretty shoes, let’s dance.
December 18, 2013
[And don’t think it is easy typing those names.]
Are in a bar pounding Dixie Beers and arguing – as people pounding Dixie Beers do — about who knows more people.
Thibodeaux knows every girl who’s ever won the pretty girl festival.
Boudreau knows every girl who’s ever won the pretty girl festival AND every judge who’s ever judged the pretty girl festival.
Thibodeaux knows every oyster shucker from New Orleans to New Iberia.
Boudreau knows every oyster shucker from New Orleans to New Iberia AND every fisherman who caught every oyster from New Orleans to New Iberia.
[Damn that Boudreau!]
Thibodeaux knows every reveler on every float in every Mardis Gras parade —
Boudreau knows every reveler PLUS every baton twirler in every Mardis Gras parade.
Thibodeaux has had enough.
“God Damn It, Boudreau, who don’t you know!”
Boudreau shakes his head. “I don’t think no one, Cher.”
“Not the Pope, you don’t know him.”
“Oh yeah, Cher, the Pope, I know him.”
At this point, Thibodeaux might have just broken off the neck on his Dixie Beer bottle and slashed Boudreau’s throat, which would be sort of justified for being such a know it all and also the end for our wayward heroes, or at least one of them —
But that would be a wrongful waste of Dixie Beer and also this is not a drama, this is a joke, so it cannot end here and next thing, Thibodeaux and Boudreau are on a plane to Vatican City.
[Also this joke was created before insane airport security so Boudreau and Thibodeaux both have lighters AND shampoo AND a caseload of Dixie Beers each on the plane and neither one of them get naked-alien-space-rayed by TSA or body cavity searched or anything yay!]
Thibodeaux and Boudreau hit Vatican City and the guards at the Pope palace do not let just anyone in who shows with a case of Dixie Beer.
The guards know Boudreau and sneak him in —
Thibodeaux is left outside cooling his heels in the square with the unwashed Vatican Square masses — and a few wayward bottles of Dixie Beer. [And yes, annoyed, good thing for the calming effects of Dixie Beer.]
The crowd cheers!
There on the balcony is a guy dressed just like the Pope!
And also —
Thibodeaux, skeptical, pokes a stranger. “Yo, Columbus, that is really the Pope?”
“Columbus” shrugs. “Dunno about the guy in the dress, but that guy next to him? That is Boudreau from New Iberia.”
*This is also — okay “actually” — my favorite Boudreau and Thibodeaux joke but “pope” is hella easier to spell. Do not worry if you do not get it though. That just means, well, you’re stupid [oops] or just haven’t spent enough time in the South. I’m going with “haven’t spent enough time in the South.” You’re welcome.
July 28, 2012
So a friend and I are headed to New Orleans for Halloween. Oh yez. Up your insurance policies and, as the Doctor says: “Basically. Run.”
This kind of high fallutin’ All Hallow’s Eve action requires costumes. I am torn between three:
WWII Pin Up Girl?
Star Wars Fighter Babe?
Or the ever constant Sailor Moon?
See that poll down there? Help a girl out and — Vote!
February 7, 2010
the saints so won yay yay yay!
February 7, 2010
February 7, 2010
*this is hilarious to me “who dat beagle” yay!
*you guys forgot i lived in louisiana didn’t you?
*bon ton roulette baby!