It's not like my tax guy said that I might have a better shot at claiming my recent trip down south as a business expense if I were to write two columns about New Orleans, it's just that… that… er, that I had so much material I wasn't able to fit it all in my last column. Yeah, that's it.
Camping It Up, Y'all
The Confederate Museum, in New Orleans, is on Camp Street.
Creepy Too Boot
The only pair of civil war soldier's boots on display at the museum were from a soldier, Alexander Dimitri (or was that 'Dimitri Alexander?'), who was killed in battle, buried on the spot, and later properly reburied. Since Alexander's body and uniform were exceptionally well preserved, his boots and other personal effects were kept out for educational purposes. I have referred to my fondness for guys in boots on numerous occasions, but Confederate cadaver boots ain't sexy.
Walking around New Orleans with some friends, we went into an adult bookstore. When the salesclerk saw my digital camera, he said 'If you start taking any pictures I'll tie you up in a heartbeat.'
The two lamest street performers I saw in New Orleans were a pair of robotic cowboys. Their metallic silver makeup was always partially wiped away, they never stood still for more than a minute or two, and they were often taking breaks to either have a snack or to go into the nearest bar.
Speaking of lame, cowboy-booted New Orleans street performers, I had my tarot cards read by the only boot-wearing tarot card reader in Jackson Square, who pretty much got everything wrong. He asked if I was a truck driver (I once blew a guy in a pickup truck a few years back, but I don't think that counts); insisted that I was given a red truck as a special gift (tarot trucker fetish?); was sure I had more than one brother (my only brother passed away last year); and who then said 'And you have no sisters, correct?' I have two.
Pretzel Logic By Dianne Magdziarz?
The tarot guy asked me whether or not I was straight — the cowboy boot tattoo on my shoulder was probably a clue to the booted, probably gay himself tarot guy. While he got that I was gay, his boots must have been fitting waaaaaaaaaaay to tightly, because he then asked if I had ever considered the whole transsexual thing.
Not That There's Anything Wrong With That
For the record: no.
It's A Crime
While checking out of my hotel in New Orleans I also checked out a large group of mostly cute police officers from all over the South who were checking out too. Not once did I see any of these cops during my three nights at the hotel, proving there's never a cop around when you need one.
I had a deluxe sleeper car on my return Amtrak trip from New Orleans, and it included a combination toilet/shower stall. As a friend of mine said: 'It brings a whole new meaning to 'shit, shower and shave.'
Or Was That Mary-Land?
OK, I never really went to New Orleans. I actually went to New Jersey to meet this hot guy named Jim who I met in the Garden State Gay Gov M4M chat room on AOL.
If you're New Jersey Governor James McGreevey, you can e-mail me at DaveInChicago773@aol.com .