Archive for January, 2009

Full Disclosure – I’m drunk. And if you don’t believe me, I’ll take a screenshot of John Mayer’s ‘Free Fallin’ (Live) cover that I’m downloading.

Seriously – John Mayer. Trust me when I say ‘I’m drunk’.

Call it being 32, call it my 2 big projects falling through, both in the past 3 days, call it what you want – but something ran through my mind while Tim and I took our chairs from the Bocce court we spent an hour on and pulled them to the waterfront.

‘When do you think you’ll die?’

‘I don’t know’.

But something about the lifestyle that both manifested itself and got there with a little help makes one wonder. I’m 32. And have less than $300 to my name. No desire to do anything that’s not chosen and while that might seem incredibly romantic, it’s hard sometimes. I live with friends on their bus, I fly to Europe on a friend’s tab – all of these experiences have a possesive before them and it’s not mine.

‘Free-loading’.

Don’t act like that phrase hasn’t crossed your mind because it does mine everyday. When I contributed most is when I was in a place I hated. But now all of my stories should be a ghost-write or come with some introductionary explanation that I’m only here out of goodwill from people I’m close with.

‘And there in lies the rub’, writes The Bard – but at least he could afford rent.

So, I’m troubled – if you can’t tell that already.

‘Live. Love. Learn. Leave a Legacy’ – these were the words my father repeated to me during my travels. But does batting .725 count? The ‘live’ comes in not bowing to pride when friends who own a bus invite me, the ‘learn’ comes from the constant revaluation of my own fuck-ups. Do I ‘love’? Yes – my friends and family. But what about the big one? Each new day presents a new reminder that the one I thought I would might never be. Which leaves ‘legacy’ – a pissed-off vlog about my life in China and a book about the 6 months I spent afterwards? Hardly think that’s going to change anything…or anyone.

I keep going back to this girl’s blog – as if someone gives a shit. I had an email from someone who says she does, and I believe her – but this is hardly riveting stuff. Would I ever be thanked in the inside cover of an album? No. I wouldn’t. I’ll just be invited to the release party.

Wait – I’m not down on myself. I’m not. I guess this is just the poor equivalent of buying a Corvette.

And I just don’t know.

I haven’t written because not a lot has been going on – and while T&R apologize for that, I’m enjoying it. The walls stay the same, it’s just the photos that come alive when you draw back the curtains that change. Such is the life of life on a bus.

I’m not even feeling the urge to write today, and if it weren’t for the nagging voice in the back of my head that constantly reminds me of the amount of things I’ve started, yet never finished, I’d be happy to upload a photo here and there…so I’ll meet it in the middle with a few highlights.

We left New Orleans, Tim still feeling the effects of whatever it was he ate a few days back…can I just show one more photo of it? By this time, we have about 3 different angles.

…ugh. I’d really love someone to tell me how to easily wrap text around photos, this centering is boring me.

We got to Pensacola and, for the first time in a year, the dogs were able to attack-retreat the ocean waves, which was fun. We tried to go out, but there just wasn’t a lot happening in Pensacola, so, after a few days, we moved. Tim was still feeling bad – fever, tummy, aches, etc. – talk about some bad food poisoning.

Back-tracking the route we did a few years ago, we ended up here, in Panama City. Tim’s Mom called him and immediately diagnosed him with such an extreme sickness, both Robin and I had to chuckle. No way did he have salmonella poisoning from the peanuts pictured above.

He had salmonella poisoning from the peanuts pictured above.

Poor guy is still at the tail end of it and both Robin and I have been emailing Mrs. Sisney for stock tips.

And here I sit – the wind blowing outside making the weather in the high-40′s. In f-ing Florida. We tried to play basketball yesterday, but blame the weather on our inability to even sum up that ole-childhood competitiveness that still finds itself in out-of-shape corners (read: Galaga. Current high score, asqueen – 134320).

It’s cold, Tim’s still at about 70% and there’s sadly nothing to do here. I know, right? Panama City, Spring Break! etc. Nothing. It’s a seasonal town, so beware.

Wait – this whole post sounds bored, and I’m not. I enjoy the downtime, seriously. We’re up at a decent hour, eating well, going to bed around midnight, it’s great.

I think I’m just on the bleh end of things as I’m not writing as much as I should be…I need a schedule, I think. But that entails planning.

And planning, well…

[Update]

Okay, so that post bored me to death (thank goodness for Tim’s ignoring FDA warnings or it would have been a wash), so I decided to race this Simply Sleep (non-habit forming, my ass) and add some girth to it, with…

Rules of The Bus!

Now, there’s a good chance that some of ya’ll will be joining us at some point, so you should know a few things about life in the O’Sisney Pub.

1. Take your shoes off – now, T&R are the nicest people in the world and I can tell they don’t like having to pass this on, so I will. Take ‘em off.

2. You have to sit down to pee-pee – while it’s an insanely large bathroom for a bus, it’s still situated in that…erm, spraying can occur. Which is not nice for anyone.

3. It’s also an Asian toilet in that toilet paper goes in the bin as not to clog up the hose that Tim has to empty and I keep promising to learn how to empty but always end up napping.*

4. No drinking before noon**

5. No drinking before working out/yoga

6. No asking – so, ‘Can I have some chips/a beer/some moisturizing lip balm?’, just take – if it’s not on this list of rules, then it’s allowed.

7. Please realize that pictures do not do the size of this bus. It’s massive – plan accordingly.

…and that’s it. A small price to pay for the most amazing way to travel.

*First pass can be thrown in toilet

** Unless you’re hungover and can make a mean Bloody Mary for the entire group

You don’t get a lot of sleep when there are 5 people on the bus. But you do get a lot of laughs. Sleep you can find anywhere, so it’s a fair enough trade. All of us except Tim, who’s been fighting off something for the past few days, got up early. Robin, Kate and I dropped off Collin to go try and quickly download an iPhone app for his golf (in)ability before playing 18 and we headed over to the Lower 9th Ward, which is – if you don’t know – the hardest hit area of Katrina.

Ironic that only a few nights ago we were discussing Alan Weisman’s ‘The World Without Us‘, as the grounds that once waged the one-sided war of nature vs. man were basically that. Wastelands. Something out of an art house film. What once housed the most concentrated population of poverty now simply held sadness. ‘X’s’ on doors denoting who came out alive and who didn’t. The realization that the walls who’s shade dwarfed us were only a few years ago submerged.  It was suffocating – despite the efforts of many to make something out of the ashes. One of those was another art installation of Prop 1, an ark made out of the debris [photo, below]. The other was Brad Pitt’s ‘Make It Right’ project – amazing in theory, but whoever allowed the early 80′s wave and pastel colors might want to realize it looks to some as a child intentionally spilling applesauce down their shirt in order for the neighbors to question his parent’s cleanliness. We drove around a few more areas, stopped for some charity vintage shopping at an amazing German couples home, but had to leave. Places like this, Auschwitz, S-21, etc, are important to take-in, but too much time there can sour your view against everything. Add to this the ‘Disaster Tour’ buses piling by, and more people taking photos of the levies than Jackson Square these days and it just gets…thick.

Now – the thing about Louisiana is that, yes, it’s been cold (40′s), but with this + humidity means amazing light and cloudless skies. So we picked up a cup of Chicory (Collin claimed it was more of a 4pm drink, but we did it anyway), split a muffuletta and just bummed in-and-out of the quaint little shops off of French Street. A mandatory drink in our favorite bar, Flanaagan’s and we said ‘goodbye’ to Kate and Collin, originally planning on seeing them tomorrow, but eager to take off these layers and find a nice cozy place in Key Largo, we’ll leave in the morning.

See ya, N’Awlins. You’re a good town, but still a bit heavy for me…

[Note: I would like to point out I nabbed one of the best photos of my life a few years back here. Worth a peek!]

[Note #2: I would also like to thank the nice Canadian couple to our right who calmly suggested that I 'might be in the wrong R.V.' as I, along with Guinness, the large black lab who went barreling into their home at 3-to-midnight, instead of shooting me.]

We needed a quiet day – seriously.

While I only speak for myself, last night was somewhat of a rude awakening, as while at Cooter Browns, Collin brought over a round of drinks and I, after taking a sip of mine, chastised him for not making sure my Jack & Coke was made strong enough. ‘It’s a double’ he said, half-laughing.

I haven’t even been here half-a-week.

We all woke up, Tim and Collin both ill from whatever it was we ate last night (culprits being fried catfish, fried soft-shell crab, fried shrimp, raw oysters or the fixings), and didn’t make it out of the bus until around 2pm where we then headed back to Magazine Street, one of the better lesser-known spots of town. With this being the final free few days of Prop 1, an all-city art collective, the chance to do something other drink was well-recieved.

Now – I hate art. Sounds strange as I surround myself by artists and was even once a partner in an art studio, I really do. Maybe because it’s not meant to be understood (which makes it crap) or when it is, is considered crap. And then there are the people who talk about art – these should be kicked. Don’t even get me started on performance art.

I walked around the Warehouse District while the others ‘absorbed’ (or, whatever you do), smoked and took photos. They ended up outlasting me and I went in. It wasn’t bad. The most interesting piece asked ‘what kind of house does a man who has lived in a 6′X9′ box for over 30 years dream of?’. Actually worth a read – if for only the Black Panther toilet. We’re going to go tomorrow to try and find Brad Pitt’s housing project.

This kind of ‘art’ I enjoy. So I don’t ‘hate’ art, just the David Lynch-y art.

After that strolled around the northern part of the Quarter (for those sick of the Girls Gone whatever scenes), buying Tom Olives and taking in the bipolar neighborhoods in-and-around Bourbon Street.

Dinner? Red Beans and Rice from…(wait for it)…Popeyes. Collin claimed they do the best (along with the biscuits) so we followed. He was right and here we all lay. Bellies full of $1.39 goodness and ‘Blazing Saddles’ on the big screen.

Sometimes, you just need nights like this – even when you’re retired.

[Photo of Collin confirming my claims of 'excess']

If ending the evening on the porch with a cigarette, some zydeco on the speakers and a Gentleman Jack in hand seems perfect, you need to have the other. Morning breeze coming off the swamp – not a 5-minute walk down from the house – and a strong Chicory keeping things that weren’t covered in a layer, warm, makes for a strong second.

Collin, in a rare feat of parting with anything edible, brought out his suitcase and bag of last nights feast as a small gift. I brought it back into the house, saying he should leave it for his Daddy. Checking his gold calculator watch, the newest addition (Kate Drance, you’re such a giver! Swedish Rocks as well!!!) to his collection, he quickly weighed family vs. famine and spent the hours that most attribute to crossiants by going  through a few crabs left over from the previous night. We had to drag him out of the house…

N’awlins awaited.

Now, should you ever find yourself passing through Baton Rouge, take an hour diversion to Highland Road, where plantation houses lean disapprovingly back from the road and country clubs that might as well put ‘Old Money’ in the title (including the former house of Jimmy ‘I Have Sinned’ Swaggart) sit. It’s worth it. Good enough for even Tim to relay Collin’s tour guide via walkie-talkie, as she was driving the Jeep in front of us.

‘Not a bad way to travel’ – this phrase seemed to sum up our 45-drive to New Orleans. Collin and Kate opened beers, as you do your first time on the road in luxury travel such as this, while I killed the hour by catching up on some emails. We pulled into the ‘closest KOA to Bourbon Street’ (which turned out to still be a 25-minute drive) and ‘opened up the bus’. Now – while that might take about 5 seconds to write, there is a certain amount that goes into ‘setting up the bus’. Parking, to start, then opening up the 4 different compartments, plugging in the electric/water/sewage and first adult beverages for everyone, takes a good few hours. It’s not an easy feat, this retiring-in-your-thirties.

About an hour or so later, we headed out to dinner, choosing the first place in the area that looked like they could a) fry things and b) serve catfish. Surprisingly, there are a few places in New Orleans that can do so. We strolled into ‘Cajun Catfish’ (original, I know) and immediately after seeing the broken Miss Pac-Man (not broken enough not to keep it plugged in) next to the juke box (which included both original and radio-friendly versions of ‘Strokin’) and a pull-lever cigarette machine, we knew this was it. If there was anyone in our 5-person group who didn’t know this, their fears immediately went out the window faster than a frozen cocktail at Drive-Thru Daiquiris upon meeting the person who’d write down our ill-advised orders.

His name was Paul. He wasn’t quite sure how he ended up there, but apparently had ‘a farm in Mississippi’ and planned to retire in 6 years because he owned a few old Janis Joplin (‘Live! At the Fillmore West) posters which ‘could sell for 75k each!’. And what did he plan to do with this money? ‘Wait until he was diagnosed with something that had no cure, but a big old Mercedes, use the leftover money to roll the biggest doobie you ever did see and go out with a bang’…

Laugh if you want (like I did), but then prepare to answer his retort:

‘Why you laughin’?’

Somethin’ to be learned from that, I think…

He was 60+ but probably didn’t realize it. However, between his Southern drawl (which seemed to incorporate every word in a sentence into one-lawng-phrase), and his shocking ability to switch between burnt-out hippie to eBay juggernaut, he managed to correctly decipher our order of wanting ‘every fish in the house brought to us fried’. Yessa, he did.

It about made us sick – but in a good greasy way. Catfish and soft-shelled crab. Cole slaw and hush puppies. Welcome to the South boys. We ate and laughed, drank and chuckled at our debit cards coming back with the old school ‘knuckle-buster’ card receipts. In every Louisiana meal, there seems to be a colorful character that brings it – this must be written in the tourist guide.

Later, we followed Collin to a few of his favorite haunts (one off the gorgeous area of Magazine St – an street I once fell in love with a lesbian and moved in with her that same night…but that is another long entry), neither anything to look at, but both with little wooden shelves right outside the door, just in case you needed to take that cocktail home withcha. You can try, as Collin mentioned, to not love New Orleans. I mean, let’s be honest, between the past failings of its leaders, the corruption, the strangenicity of gorgeous homes being a block from neighborhoods that we couldn’t get out of a cab in and the overall strange ‘juju’ (<<< that link is worth a read!) that has forever (even pre-Katrina) hung over this town, but it’s impossible. You walk away with a major hangover, a promise to never tackle a hand-grenade again, and a certain distaste for the human humidity that follows every path you take here…but something, someone, some…vibe, seems to get you all the more excited to come back.

Because every time you return…you think you know it even better.

[Note: Robin, being the congenial host, made us all 'Left-Over Catfish Nachos' last night - complete with hush-puppy & cheese toppings. I somehow made it out alive, Collin did not. Made sense at the time.]