I Got Bourbon-Faced on Sh*t St.

Despite the air travel debacle, I managed to eke out a good 36 hours in New Orleans. J didn't react too well to the mid-afternoon hurricanes at Pat O'Brien, but the muffaletta seemed to cushion my stomach enough to run around into the wee hours. Our hotel was at the end of the parade route, so float occupiers proceeded to chuck entire bags of beads at us. One guy even tried to pitch an enormous Sponge Bob Squarepants at me; I politely declined. We then proceeded to my friend's favorite gay bar at the end of Bourbon Street. Apparently the other one is scary and militant. We both agreed that the bartender was cute and that boys dancing on bars in varying styles of lingerie is icky. We agreed to disagree on the definition of the word "fag hag" and how that term would apply to me since I was accompanying him out. I was then hit on by a lesbian with her questioning male friend, who then hooked up with my friend after I rebuffed their advances. Fun stuff until I had to drag my friend back to the hotel and then yak up the muffaletta.

The next day we chowed down on some yummy Cajun food and did some more walking around before going home. The Dog "Parade" was today, although it did not seem that organized. Luckily, there were no flight dramas