Veni, Vidi….I Returned To Houston


I came to some conclusions during my recent trip to New Orleans.   Namely in that in the seven years since I was last there, I had gotten considerably older and in the damnedest ways.    You see, I’ve lived a hedonist’s life.  I’ve done very little I didn’t want to do and I worked for 27 years in a career that completely aided and abetted this carefree attitude.    

But living the life of a libertine, pleasuremongering profligate and sybarite has aged me.   I had a nasty wreck 19 years ago and broke 11 major bones, so that makes me  feel old as I hobble from place to place walking like Quasimodo sans the lisping and drooling and the sanctuary seeking.   I can’t walk for long periods of time.

I’m also finding it much harder to recover from getting my swerve on.  In New Orleans, my 27-year-old niece and God-daughter and I went to some coven  on Bourbon Street where this witch, prepared a brew called a “Hand Grenade” that was in the simplest of terms, FUCKING RIDICULOUS in terms of its potency.   And yes, old Rock Gut Me drank three of the damned things.  The end result?  Me, very, very drunk.  

Yes, I was very drunk, but coherent and mentally cohesive enough to know when to stop, but while “fun”, in that I got to spend time with Becks on Bourbon Street, it hurt.   And it hurt more than ever before.   This was Thursday night people..the evening of Day Deux in Nawlins.   It was early.  Even so (and with the exception of a little smidge of Vodka at dinner at Antoine’s Friday night), I didn’t drink again the entire trip.    This was secured by the fact that Saturday morning while looking all over Chartres for a Voodoo store, I actually tripped over chunky vomit from the night before–a petrified and putrified beignet (or a doll’s pillow) in the middle of the street that somehow eluded all those corrosive digestive acids in that drunken schlub’s stomach.   Guess all those hurricanes didn’t help move things along either.      

 I  know that vomit and organic waste down in the Quarter is part of the landscape on Friday and Sunday mornings, but to slip on it, only to do an unwitting triple toe loop, a la Miss Brian Boitano, who I’m still more butch than, is just gross.

And I never stick the landing.

Honestly, I don’t know how long time alcoholics do it, other than in their disease, the need for alcohol supersedes every negative having too much of it in one’s system  can create.

It will take some time for me to recover and I will.   And of course, I offer you, Gentle Reader the same thing I always do when I swear I’ll never drink again.   I won’t go Faustian on any deal either, but I think it will be a while again before I have anything stronger than Earl Gray pass my lips (and that’s the English breakfast tea, perv, NOT the man). 



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