March 15, 2002
"Wasting away again in Margarataville…" -Jimmy Buffet

Actually, it war rum daqueerys that dun did me in tni(hick)ght. Curse that fucking blender and those two insane people that made me drink a third of a liter of Myers Rum. I called it right from the outset: Russian roulette. One of us is gonna have their brains splattered all over the wall sitting `round this blender like this, I said. No one listened. George was rambling about tying his honey-covered boss down to a fire ant colony, and Peg-leg was too far gone on some kinda anti-anxiety pills (or maybe acid, she wouldn't fess up tho' the symptoms were so f-ing obvious I wanted to grab her by the ears and lick her eyeballs for the residue).

Good drugs are hard to get in this town. One must be prepared to do just about anything to get high. And licking that girl's eyeballs could have been dangerous. God only knows where they've been.

I do know where they weren't, however. They weren't on me. Only once during the whole evening did she look straight at me. We were together perhaps four hours, Peg-leg, George and me. And that only because I noticed her staring off into space and caught her off guard, snapping my fingers somewhere along the invisible straight line between her eyes and mine. She instinctively followed the sound, and I found myself staring into deep space through barely conscious, bloodshot eyes.

What little eyes Pegleg had that night were all for rambling George, despite her roundabout denials of their blatant love affair. A smart guy, George. Very smart. But nutty as they come. Besides the frozen daiquiris, that was about all we three had in common tonight: our mutual madness. That, at least, was something.

What a strange and yet oh-so-necessary brief night of relief this was. For me, it was relief from the pain of staying home and watching my lone, sweet pet suffer, supposedly in the throws of death by kidney failure, although to look at her, you'd never know it. I had set out after sunset, intent on walking to Carrolton, catching the streetcar to Napolean, and dropping in on Jules. But the streetcar never came.

And so I walked and walked until finally, an hour later, I found myself at Upperline, Pegleg's street, and decided to drop by there first. As I rounded the corner and headed down Upperline, the streetcar rumbled by behind me on its way to town. All I could do was shake my head and mumble fuck-you, though in truth, I was grateful for the long, evening walk that the tardy streetcar had forced upon me.

And the rest is history. Daiquiris. One very gonzo Pegleg. An ever garrulous and barely comprehensible George. A blender. Gumbo for dinner. The house cat stoned out of her head on catnip. And four, not-unpleasant yet alien hours of feeling sure I had interrupted a major roll in the hay.

Coitus interruptus, which, the moment I departed, would resume with all pistons firing and a trail of smoking burnt rubber screaming away down the dark New Orleans streets behind my confused yet happy, homeward-weaving size-11 feet.

I had much more to say about tonight, details galore. Fearful I'd forget them, I called home from my cell phone and dictated notes into my answering machine. Once home, I realized I was either too tired or too drunk to write tonight. Fuck it, I said. And then I sat down and wrote this.


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