Statue Jesus would like to give you a double thumbs up

But he can't. This should prove as a lesson for everyone. Carpentry accidents can happen to anyone, so be careful with those sharp tools.

Pictures!

You can see the muffin by Marie's tomb. It's wrapped in plastic. Bet it's not so delicious now, that is, if Marie hasn't eaten it herself already.

Dead People and Burbon St

So that picture was actually taken in Memphis, but I packed my extra camera batteries in my checked bag, which is currently god knows where, and my poor little camera just ran out of juice, so I can't upload the pictures from yesterday, which are splendid, I assure you.

Friday morning we left Biloxi and drove an hour and a half back to New Orleans, and stayed on St. Charles Ave. We walked back to the French Quarter, and went on a cemetery tour with Tamara, and her mule, Jolly. Jolly's girlfriend, Christmas, is also a working mule, so whenever they'd pass each other in the streets, Jolly would bray to her. I imagined he was saying things like "I'm hot". "I'd like some carrots", or "hey baby, nice manure bag, that new?". The cemeteries are down by Basin street, and apparently aren't safe for self-touring, hence Tamara. I'm glad we went with her, because she had a ton of fun facts. So because most of New Orleans is below sea level, bodies have to be buried above ground. Back when Louisiana was being settled, pre-civil war, there were several yellow fever out breaks which killed tons of people, who would be thrown into a burial pit, only to rise up again at the whim of the tides.

Now people are buried in vaults, in wood coffins. Here's something fun. So during June, July, and August, the vaults get anywhere between 300-700 degrees. The bodies undergo a natural cremation, and so the tomb must remain shut for a year and a day, afterwhich the remains, mostly ashes, are shovled down a center crevace, and the tomb can be used again. Most of the individual tombs are passed down through family members, but poor people who can't afford their own tombs are buried in "benevolent society" tombs, which are bigger, but operate in pretty much the same way as the little ones. I do like the space saving techniques. Oh, and because they like to be difficult, the Protestants said screw you to the tombs, and bury their dead underground and place a big slab of marble or concrete over the bodies to keep them from popping back up.

So at St. Louis 1, there are some famous remains (well, probably not anymore, but you know what I mean) including Homer Plessy, he of Plessy v. Furguson, Ernest Morial, the first African American mayor of New Orleans, and Marie Laveau, the voodoo priestess (who was also catholic). People leave gifts to Marie, asking for her favor and help with problems, and some of the gifts we saw included shoes, beads, cups, and my favorite, a muffin. Mmm! If I were a ghost, I would totally accept muffin tokens! So I think Marie saw me coveting her muffin, because as we left her tomb a palm leaf sliced open my elbow, and I left a little blood offering to Ms. Laveau. I assume that my elbow will have supernatural powers now. Don't mess with me or I'll point my elbow at you. Those of you who know me well know that I already have what my sisters have termed "the power", that is, people who are mean to me tend to meet very bad ends (fires, car accidents, death death death) so Marie's probably enhancing that a bit.

So after the bloodletting I needed a snack, and so we went to cafe du monde, which is famous for its coffee with chicory and beignets. It was too hot for coffee, but I'm always up for pastry, so we replenished our blood sugar, probably to an unsafe level. My verdict was tasty, but nothing to write home about (though they are something to blog about, apparently). It was pretty much like the fried dough you'd get at the circus, if you were into creepy things like the circus.

After snackage we hung out by the Mississippi for a while, chatted and watched the barges, and also a fish that Lizzie noticed that was flipping out of the water, as if he were a whale or something. "I'm breaching!" That's my kind of fish, thinking big.

We walked and walked and walked and walked for the rest of the afternoon until dinner time, and then when back to the hotel to change our shoes and rest before we hit the "party street", which we were planning on observing from an anthropological point of view. Burbon street is flanked with bars and nekkid-lady clubs, and the streets are packed with drunk people by 8pm. It was like faneuil hall on steroids, and open later. I found it completely unintimidating and unispiring, and just sort of sad. We went into one bar for dancing, and a stupid frat boy stuck his paw in my vodka tonic, so I had to throw it out and elbow him (with the magic elbow) and now he's probably lost some vital body parts. Speaking of vital body parts, the band leader was a fella of about 50, but was in good shape which made him appear younger from far away. His shtick, though, if you will ,was to gyrate his crotch in the audience's general direction, which seemed to be working for some people, but just made me sort of want to sit him down and talk about if he has castration anxiety, since he seems to think that the locus of all his power is in the junk-region.

Other Bourbon st highlights--there was a middle-aged skinny guy who was clearly on meth and was doing the dance-punch thing, as if he was at a dropkick murphy's concert and was in the mosh pit. Of course it's Burbon st, so whatev, just let him knock someone out. I was thinking about using the elbow, but I don't want to use it all up in one day. Also, there was a older white dude who was trying to (figuratively) pick up a black woman (who was a whole lotta woman, by the way) and did so by taking off his outer shirt to reveal that he was wearing a Barack Obama t-shirt underneath. "Look! I like Barack Obama. He's black. You're black. Let's do it!" I'm sure he meant well...or not, but she was not impressed. She did ask some folks to take their picture together, though, and this involved stomping on my foot and shoving me into a pole. I thought to myself, "what would my sister do?" and so I photo-bombed them, though not my sister's preferred obscene version. I gave them both finger antennae, and the photographer didn't blow my cover, so I hope she enjoys that upon development (it was an old-school disposible camera).

Home again, Home again. It's Saturday now, and we're at the NOLA airport. We're flying through Dallas, and then I'll go on to Boston, and Lizzie will stay in Dallas for work. I'll post some of the cemetery photos upon my return, and also my pictures of touch-down Jesus, which is a famous statue that has Jesus with his arms outstretched in the football ref TOUCHDOWN position. He lost a finger and thumb in Katrina, but they were subsequently located nearby, and will be reattached once recovery is more complete.

See you soon!

Bliss!

Lizzie would like to offer you some sweet, sweet, Wafflehouse biscuits and gravy? No? You've had your intake of sodium for today? Well, then, aren't you special. So today involved sitting by the pool, which didn't turn out the way I intended. I intended to even out the blotchy burn on the top of my legs with the careful application of sunblock, but 50 spf is apparently not strong enough for the Biloxi sun, so now the backs of my legs are burned, which, I guess, evens things out but when I don't have pants on, it looks like I'm wearing chaps. Too much information? Also, my sunburn has the basket weave pattern of the leaf-shaped chaise I was lounging on. I'll too much information you...

After we recovered from frying in the sun, we drove out to Mobile, Alabama, which is about an hour away from Biloxi. It's the self-proclaimed "red-neck riveria", a title which I'm not completely comfortable with, so I'll just refer to it as the Gulf Coast, still. We had dinner there, and the waitress was so Mom-like that I felt really guilty that I could only eat, I'd say, about 45% of what I'd been given. I was not a member of the clean-plate club, and while my cholesterol and body mass index were grateful, Maggie our server gave us the "you sure you're done" look followed by the "you sure you don't want to take that home" look.

Alabama (well, the parts we saw) was really pretty, and it's hard not to have a big dumb smile on your face while you're on vacation and cruising down the highway in your Topless Maude, singing to Journey at the top of your lungs. We promised several people that we'd have a mint julep whilst in the south, so after we returned from Alabama, we went to the bar in our hotel, and it was "ladies night", a concept which still creeps me out, but which meant we got one free drink, in this case a mint julep. It was divine, as was the band, sort of, which played all disco the first set. I am a big fan of dancing, and though constrained to the limits of our bar stools, Lizzie and I managed to shake our groove thang, shake our groove thang (yeah yeah). Unfortunately, a large number of the other patrons had on what I'd like to refer to as their "bitch faces" , which can't, I'd imagine, have helped the band out any. COME ON, there are people singing and dancing for your entertainment, and this band was not spectacular by any means, but they were fun, so cut the shit and chair dance, damn you! Try to attempt the running man while seated. DO something with your life. Haha.

Speaking of doing something with your life, Lizzie and I are total party animals, and like to be sleeping by midnight, so here we are, back in our room, wrapping things up in Mississippi before we head back out to NOLA tomorrow.

See you there!

(yeah yeah)

A promise to my sister

I promised Danielle this would happen while we were in Graceland. Please refer any complaints directly to her.

Time and Unforeseen Occurrence

Biloxi, MS

So that picture was taken in Elvis' billiard room. Check out the wall paper. That's pretty sweet. So the ol' Time and Unforeseen occurence befall us all phrase is lifted directly from the bible, and is one of my favorite lines becuase it's basically bible-ese for Shit happens. Per the last post, Lizzie had a death in her family, and so we drove down to Gulfport so she could catch her flight. There was an intense storm, and we couldn't see past our windshield, so we had to pull over and sit in the break down lane with our flashers on and hope no one would barrel into us. Turns out everyone else was doing the same thing, because when the rain lifted a little, there were dozens of other cars chillin' in the breakdown lane. We'd go about half a mile, and then would be forced to pull over again while a particularly heavy blast of rain passed over. The best part was when the lightening kept repeatedly striking the highest object available, which was a gigantic highway sign for Target. Oh, nature, you and your sense of humor.

Luckily we made it to the airport in time for Lizzie to catch her flight to Boston, which had a layover in Memphis. I drove to our hotel, which is a casino/resort monstrosity in Biloxi. Gambling is depressing, and most of the guests here are elderly and disabled, and probably wasting buckets and buckets of money which could be used on much awesomer things, like a 100% guaranteed sandwich. I like those odds much better. I forgot to mention that you can smoke everywhere down here, in the bars, the hotels, etc. I was on the elevator with a man who was on oxygen and smoking, and I was pretty sure that was it for me. Anyway, Lizzie's connector flight kept getting delayed and delayed, and finally she called me to let me know that her flight had been totally cancelled, and that she was stuck in Memphis for the night (which is a 10 hour drive from here). There were no more connecting flights home, so she had to stay the night in a skeezy Marriott, and flew back out to Gulfport this morning, unfortunately missing the funeral she'd been trying so hard to get to.

But we've been reunited, and apparently there is a pool on top of our parking garage, which calls for checking out, unless we get more of that torrential rain. I'll have to check the doppler first. Tonight we're hoping to make our way out to Alabama for dinner, because why not?

Also, as a secondary bummer, I just read that Les Paul passed away. It's pretty amazing that he was able to keep playing music even to age 94.

Goin' to Graceland

Hi from somewhere, Mississippi. Maybe McComb? We started today in our shack in Clarksdale, which turns out to be HAUNTED. Haha. Lizzie was in the bathroom fixing her hair, and I heard her say something, and I said "What?" and she said "Didn't you just walk by and open the door and groan?" (In not so many words) and I looked dumbly at her, eyeliner in hand, because I'd been in the front room the whole time trying to jury rig a vanity out of travel guide books and my compact mirror. We figured it was the shack-ghost, who was trying to communicate something along the lines of "Why are you still here in this shack? OooOOoooo!" Spooky! So we decided to take his advice, and high tail it to Memphis to visit Elvis. (note, while we were checking out, the check out dude was joking around about how he wished he'd waited until his fifties to do all the cocaine he had done in his twenties)

It took about two hours to get up to Memphis, and honestly, Elvis Presley Blvd reminded me a little of the crappier parts of Route One in Saugus. We paid a million dollars for Graceland parking, and then paid another million for the "tour", which was self-guided with the help of headphones and a little modified walkman. I was pretty psyched to see Graceland, but to be honest it was pretty underwhelming, especially given the huge fee we had to pay to get in. The "mansion" itself is pretty small, and there is a boat-load of thick green shag carpeting, even on the walls. The jungle room looked like something your Aunt Mabel would have in her house--a room devoted to a bunch of weird crap she'd collected at yardsales that had a sort of unifying theme, like kitties, or angels, or jungle animals. The kitchen was small, though there was enough room to make fried banana and peanut butter sammiches. We saw the stables, the raquet ball court (houses jumpsuits now, not raquetball), and then the meditation garden, where Elvis and his folks are hanging out now. We were shuttled across the street where we looked at Elvis' airplane over a wall (we weren't paying another million dollars for that tour) and then took off to check out downtown Memphis, Beale street, Sun Records and all that good stuff. I wish we could've seen more Elvis impersonators, but I feel like Las Vegas is the place to do that. Anyway, Elvis is still pretty awesome, and I'm glad they don't let tourists see the bathroom.

So now for the sad news--Lizzie's had a death in her family, so she's flying out tomorrow from Gulfport, MS for the funeral. I'll be staying in Ol' Miss, mentally redecorating Graceland while I await her return on Thursday.

Fun with shacks

The birthplace of the blues is closed on Mondays

So here we are in Clarksdale, Mississippi, birthplace of the blues. Legend has it that Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil at the cross roads of Routes 49 and 61, and hence, well, the blues. Unfortunately, none of the museums or, say, blues clubs, are open on Mondays, so we went to the packie, and all they had were Parrot's bay wine cooler things (which give me heart burn, in case you were wondering, but I'm a trooper) which you could purchase individually, so we did that and came back to our shack (more on that in a moment) and toasted with our picture of Robert Johnson, above.

Shack! So Lizzie found the Shackin' up inn on the interwebs, and we thought it would be fun, and sort of kitschy to stay here. Joke's on us. It's a fucking shack. Our shower (drip, drip, drip) has a wrench where one would normally find a knob to control water flow, and it smells like a mildewy basement. There are rags for "curtains" held up by broken tiki torches, and there are mouse traps in every corner. Also, the particular treatment on the window we're staring at right now is a ratty t-shirt with the American flag on it. Someone left a jar of butter pickles in our microfridge, so that's coming back as a souvenier for one of you lucky readers.

Before we could process the shacktitude, we wanted to get some food, because I was cranky, and unable to laugh at the irony of our self-imposed situation. We asked the "desk clerk" where we could eat, and he and another customer told us that everything thing was closed, because, well, it was Monday. What? (Also, Lisa P will be happy to know that there was a dachshund sitting outside on the gravel in front of the "lobby"). In any case, there was one bbq joint open, Abe's, which originally opened in 1924. The fact that I was absolutely starving did not detract from the absolute delciousness of our pile of pork and beans. (Good thing Lizzie and I get separate rooms in our shack, for safety's sake. There was cabbage, too). After we scarfed down dinner (it took all of 10 minutes) we did the Clarksdale 500, and saw all of the places which we could've gone to had it been Tuesday, or Wednesday or even Sunday, for fuck's sake. Then we hit the packie for the aforementioned wine coolers (MMMM). I have to say that it's a real confidence booster to be the most interesting thing to walk into this particular packie in quite some time, I'm sure. Perhaps it was the bbq stuck in my braces, or the reddened tops of my legs, or the new tear in Lizzie's dress. Perhaps it was a combination of these things. Who can decode the feminine mystery? But all conversation ended when we entered, and I'm sure our choice of beverage wowed the clerks, who carded me, probably so he could see from whence these exotic creatures came. They guessed that we were staying at the Shackin' up inn, and we dodged the question, and dodged the packie and came back home with our spoils, which also included, I forgot to mention, a hershey's bar. Hells yeah.

We wandered around a bit more post packie (but pre beverage consumption) and I have to admit that I got the shit scared out of me by a dead snake. I was taking pictures over this awesome bridge, and noticed a big honkin' snake by my feet. I jumped back and slapped my toasted legs in fright, and then yelped because it hurt. Oh it burns. Poor Lizzie couldn't identify the source of my terror until I said "oh, nevermind, it's dead." I also took a picture. It felt necessary.

We returned to our shack, took our photo with Bob, and were pleasantly surprised that Lizzie's fancy interweb connector thing worked out here in West no-where Mississippi. We're hoping to see some actual stars tonight but will probably be frightened by the lack of light pollution.

Tomorrow, Graceland. I hope that shit is not closed on Tuesdays.

On our way to Clarksdale, MS

We left New Orleans pretty early in the morning, making a quick stop at Louis Armstrong's park. Poor Louis' park is not looking good, probably because there's not a lot of money to maintain it, with all of the other infrastructural repairs that need to be made to the city. After the park, we took Basin street (word) out to Highway ten past the Gulf of Mexico, and then North up 55 to Mississippi. It was a pretty damn long drive, so we put Maude's top down, and cruised in style. By we I mean "me" and by "in style" I mean that I'm not so much of a lady as Lizzie, who worked diligently to keep the wind from kicking up her skirt. I let nature do her thang and except for when we were driving by truckers, let the wind kick up whatever she wanted to. One problem, now I have a pretty hilarious sun burn on the top of my thighs--just the tops. Bright-ass red. Good times. We're burned pretty much all over, but that's what stands out the most on me.

Also, does anyone know if you have to pay an extra charge if you sweat excessively into your rental car seat? I hope that's a negatory.

KUDZU! I knew that there was a big problem with Kudzu out here, but Lizzie and I were absolutely shocked by the kudzu army taking over the vegetation. It swallowed up trees, fields, utility poles, anything in its path, but the creepiest part is that after it engulfs one of its victims, say, a pine tree, the shape it has is that of some weird insidious looking topiary sculpture. I don't think goats alone will be able to solve this problem. The kudzu ended where the fields and farm plantations began, and we saw some serious crop dusting and combine action on our travels.

Frenchman and Decauter

Ahh, objectification of women, always a good time. Note that the male statues are doing important manly things, like producing music, while the women are doing important lady things, like flashing their breasts and their butts. Ah, to each their own special skill sets.

Neat.

So it rained and thundered pretty impressively yesterday afternoon, but it cleared out about quarter past six, so we went back into the French Quarter for dinner. We ended up on Frenchman St., which was where ol' James had directed us to go for the music scene later that night. We found what Lizzie aptly called the Somerville of New Orleans, because there were dozens of young people hipstered out, and we saw more than one pill box hat, though my favorite was the leopard skin one. After our vegetable feast, we checked out a bunch of bars which luckily for us didn't have cover charges. They usually had a one-drink minimum, but since we're lightweights and the alcohol is expensive here, we found that you could slip in and slip out without obeying that particular requirement. The first had a band playing some swing, and everyone was dressed up a la 1940, and there was some serious Lindy hop happening. They were no joke, and if you got in their way, injuries were guaranteed. When that band took a break, we decided to leave Lindy-hop land (it felt sort of like we'd crashed a party we weren't invited to) and check out another bar, this one having a pop/rock sort of thing going on.

The problem with this bar was the older gentlemen who were related to the band (their Dads, to be precise, the band members being of the same age as Lizzie and I). They were scumbaggily charging their drinks to their son's tab, and then offered to do the same for us, but we declined, because that's seventh-level douchery, the highest level acheivable. Not hindered by our complete un-impressedness, Dave (as we learned, the more persistent of the two was) continued to annoy us. He asked our occupations, was impressed not so much with me (haha) but with Lizzie's job, and asked if she would be his sugar momma. She said her husband wouldn't like it. Turns out he was a CPP--a certified Payroll professional, and I got to break out this gem: "That's so neat! My Dad worked in Payroll," continuing to tell Dave about my Father's employment history. Prescense of Dad in conversation is the ultimate pick-up buzzkill, especially since this man was probably older than my Dad. Anyway, thanks, Dad!

We fled this bar whilst Dave's back was turned (I heart stealth) and our last stop was actually on Decauter street, and there was a killer bluegrass/honky tonk/rockabilly band playing, and the ass this band kicked was a level of ass-kicking not easily acheived by mere mortals. The lead singer was Gal Holiday, for reals, and the voice that came out of her did not match her 100-pound frame. Anyway, I had to pick up her cd, and perhaps we can all have a two-steppin' ho down when Lizzie and I make it back. Yee-haw!

Uh...

New Orleans

Awesome! It's so warm and humid here, which is spectacular. They tend to over-aircondition indoors, so poor Lizzie has had to hear me whine more than once that I was cold. Right now it's pouring out, which often happens on summer afternoons, giving us a moment to chill, and more importantly, to update you all on our adventures.

We went out a little after ten, and meandered through the French Quarter. The streets are really narrow, and the buildings are all very close together. Apparently they were all rebuilt in the early 1800s after two huge fires wiped out all but four buildings, which we got to see on our buggie tour, which I will get to in a moment. It's not very crowded right now, and when I talked to our bartender at Boudreaux's backyard, where we stopped a little while ago to have a hurricane (they were invented in New Orleans. We had to) he told us that the high tourist season begins in about a month, and also that this had been a cool sunmmer in New Orleans, too. Cool for them is upper 80s, instead of 100s, though.

We had lunch in Jackson Square, named after Andrew Jackson, who, histroy tells us, is a douche (TRAIL OF TEARS) so I have a pretty good picture of a bird s(h)itting on his hat. The restaurant we ate in was sadly disappointing. The waiter screwed up both of our orders, and gave us what he thought was a charming shrug, without offering to make things right, and then protested when Lizzie paid by credit card, because he wanted no bank interference with his tip. Having been a waitress for three years, I call bs on that one. The restaurant has to pay out all your credit card tips, and then you report them to the federal government who taxes the paltry money you make for your hourly rate--$2.63 an hour when I was doing it. Basically, we don't care if we're not making it convenient to lie on your taxes.

After lunch, we decided it was time to saddle up for a mule-driven buggy ride. We selected a buggy driven by a man in his mid thirties, I'd say, who was an inch shorter than me (ha ha) with a flat-top hat and an unfortunate long-haired-goatee look happening. Also, there were side burns. Turns out his name was James, much like our safari guide in Africa. It seemed fitting. The mule's name was Cash, as in Johnny Cash, because he "wore" black. Also, mule fun fact: Mules have a higher body temperature than both horses and donkeys, making them better suited for working in New Orleans.

So there were these really grumpy Floridians on our tour through the french quarter, one of whom was munching, petulantly, on a hot dog as James showed us the sights and told us about the various landmarks, including but not limited to nunneries, burlesque shows, the birthplace of about a million drinks. That seemed to be a theme: booze. We got a boatload of history in in 45 minutes, but it always seemed to come back to alcohol, which made us worry about James a little. So our buggy ride ends, and everyone leaves except us, as Lizzie wants to ask about the cemeteries, which we will visit tomorrow. James pauses, because the grumpy Floridian has left her hotdog on his seat. I said "Neat, free hot dog!" and then James said "So what are you doing tonight?". WORKS EVERY TIME! I said "Just kicking around" and he told us where the better bars and jazz clubs were, which just happened to be near his house. Lizzie didn't like where this was going (probably because she was jealous of my mad pick-up skillz) and ushered me away before I could make any more hot dog jokes. We checked out the Mississippi river, and then walked down Bourbon street (into the aforementioned Boudreaux's) where we quizzed the bartender about pretty much everything.

I know this is going to be suprising to most of you, but I likes to talk, and this is paradise for me, because no one seems to think it's weird when I engage them in long conversations about LSU football rivalries, their feelings on tourists, and the lack of proper public transportation. This bartender got comfortable enough with us to relate stories about people peeing in the bar's courtyard, and also recommened that on our adventures through the gulf we hit Panama city. He also whispered that we should leave Burbon street, because it was a tourist trap, which we'd figured out already, but we appreciated the tip nonetheless.

So now we're back in our swanky hotel, waiting out the storm so we can go back to a jazz club for the evening. No bananas foster yet, but we did see the place where it was invented. I'm sure James would've been willing to educate us on bananas foster if Lizzie hadn't insisted on us fleeing first. Sheesh.

New Orleans, Queen of Juxtaposition!

Hello from Central time! Highlights from the flights:

We flew from Boston to Chicago to New Orleans. From Boston to Chicago, Lizzie and I didn't get to sit together. Lizzie sat next to a self-proclaimed "former" trophy wife who was a pretentious NY Times journalist (so she claimed, anyway. If she'd been more interesting, our guess would've been that she worked for the Weekly World News, after offering to "profile" Lizzie) and I sat behind a satanic devil-spawn three-year-old who talked about himself in third person. He was wearing a pink polo shirt with a popped collar. I blame his parents. Bascially, he would scream his head off and yell "MORGAN NEED. MORGAN NEED" while pushing every single button in his reach, including the flight attendant call button while his father said, casually, "no, don't do that. stop". Shannon need to explain the difference between need and want to you, Morgan. Shannon WANT to slap your father, because it would be rude to slap you, but she doesn't necessarily *need* to. Also, the woman sitting behind me put her gross foot up on my arm rest, and poked me in the arm with her toe. I wasn't quite sure at first what was touching me, so I elbowed back hard in surprise and fright, and probably broke her toe. You deserve it, lady, don't put your nasty-ass feet on someone else's arm rest.

Onward.

Our flight to New Orelans was delayed a bit, so we arrived later than anticipated. We picked up topless Maude, our lovely Sebring convertible (which will take us a while to figure out) and drove into New Orleans proper. I'd like to note that Digney's "Trouble on the Levee" was playing as we drove by the Super Dome. For reals. He has some serious predicitive powers.

As we wandered through the French Quarter, we noticed, per the picture above, many, many men wearing red dresses (and women too, but that's not so surprising). There were kilts, polka dotted skirts, prosthetic breasts, etc. Turns out there was a charity marathon for the American heart society today, hence the red dresses, but clearly New Orleans has a sense of humor, because there is a cigar convention running concurrently. When we dragged our sorry arses up to our hotel (after first going to the wrong one, oops) we noticed, among the normal amenities in the mini bar, the above pictured "intimacy kit". I feel like the obstetrical towlettes are particularly romantic.

More to come tomorrow, when we explore the French Quarter and the Garden District.

Airport Sittin'

Greetings from scenic East Boston! Currently it is a balmy 67 degrees, and we have a stunning view of a parking garage as we await boarding. So when I woke up this morning I was absolutely freezing, having left the window open last night. What is this comfortable sleeping weather bs? It's August, I should be shrouded in my own sweat. Hence our decision to visit the deep South. Lizzie picked me up around 7:30, and up until that time I was tidying up my apartment, just so my family wouldn't think I was a slob, should I decide to stay in New Orleans and marry an Alligator farmer, leaving them to manage my estate. We made it to the airport in record time (thanks to Mark), just in time to enter security after some folks who forgot to take off their shoes (flip flops). The TSA dude bellowed "YOUR FOOTWEAR" at the top of his lungs, which made everyone in a three mile radius take off their shoes, though I thought it was kind of adorable how they're trained to say "footwear". Like "TAKE OF YOUR SHOES" might not be all inclusive. "I'm sorry, what's your definition of shoes? These are clogs. I always consider 'shoes' to be the hard soled, leathery...oh, you shot me."

Anyway, we're going to fly up through Chicago, and then back down to New Orleans. I wonder we can count O'Hare as our visit to Illinois. I guess that'd be cheating.

Things we've learned about the people around us:

Navy blue shorty shorts are okay to wear with sweaters if you're a hundred years old

Fred had to pay $50 for his checked bag, even though everyone else only had to pay $15 because Fred is lying to the person he's on the phone with to make him seem more important. When the person on the other end of the call seemed to be implying this, Fred got really mad, and hung up. Fred, you're full of shit.

Wearing a yellow polo shirt with a chickadee decal and coral-colored shorts do not make you any less of a man...

Yelling WHERE ARE THE OUTLETS is not an effective way to locate said outlets.

See you all when we're in Central time!

A Story about Lodging: Flashback 2005

It looks sort of harmless, right? So back in aught-five, Lizzie and I did a tour of San Diego, and then drove up to the Grand Canyon, and then back to California through the Mojave desert (which we didn't really think through) landing us back in San Diego. Oh, I'm sorry, did I say San Diego? I meant Imperial beach, which is neither Imperial, nor a beach. Okay, it's a beach, but it's definitely not Imperial. The drive took us 14 hours, so we were pretty busted by the time we rolled up to this lovely Super 8, which is apparently in walking distance from Tijuana. What they don't show in the picture is all of the dirty, dessicated mattresses stacked against the windows. That's a bonus.

We rolled into Imperial Beach long after nightfall, and dragged our suitcases into the front office, where the creepy front desk attendant made a creepy comment about how many beds we needed, followed by lascivious eyebrow waggling. For better or for worse, Lizzie and I are much bigger smartasses than perhaps belies our benign looks, and Lizzie made a comment back that was hilarious and horribly inappropriate, and which I won't repeat here, but will tell you in secret if you ask. The comment did come back to haunt us a little.

So we dragged ourselves and our stuff upstairs to our second floor suite (alas, no dirty mattresses lying against our windows) and I decided it was time to return all that diet coke I'd drank back into the wild. However, whoever had used this particular bathroom before us had obviously been, let's say, facing a challenge, and the toilet erupted with a disgusting mass of filth heretofore unseen by me (or anyone else, I'd imagine). I screamed in what I assume was terror as the flotillas of human waste surged through the pipes and onto the floor. I turned the water to the toilet off to MAKE IT STOP, and meanwhile, heard another squawk of terror from Lizzie outside the bathroom. I surveyed the scene, and it appeared that someone had tried to force something inorganic, like a diaper, down the pipes (along with the remains of what must've been one hell of a feast). I dropped some towels on the floor, washed my hands and wondered what poor Lizzie was facing out in the sleeping quarters that could be as bad or worse as what had just happened to me.

Turns out there was a wad of crusty body hair on her bed.

At this point, we should've beat feet, as they say, but we had driven 14 hours and were exhausted. We didn't want to speak to pervy desk clerk again, given the deployment of the hilarious and inappropriate comment, so we decided to throw the questionable, hairy bed sheet onto the bathroom floor to soak up the remains of the day, and leave at the crack of dawn. Sleep, oddly enough, remained elusive however as the carousing just outside the building was intense, and people were apparently into smashing empty booze bottles against the motel walls. Hence the mattresses, I assume.

Alas, life was not great at this particular super 8. Also, the poor, poor housekeeper. I hope they just burned all of the sheets. And the bathroom. And potentially the entire building.

Soundtrack!

As you know, the most important feature of the road trip is the music. If you don’t bring an adequate supply of cds (none of our Maudes have had MP3 docs yet. Some day…) you might, say, end up driving along the Mexican border in Arizona hearing endless Mariachi bands on the radio, and sort of go a little crazy. When you hear your first hour of Mariachi music, you’re like, yay! I love Mariachi music! This is fun and brassy! But then, after like, hour four, you’re like “Isn’t there some static I could listen to or something? Why is that cactus looking at me like that? Aarrrgh Bats!”

In any case, we luckily have a ready-made soundtrack for our Gulf Coast adventures, supplied by none other than the fabulous Digney Fignus. I highly recommend picking up Digney’s cds if you a) like music; b) like to dance; c) have a pulse. Seriously, though, we all need to do our part to keep crap like the Jonas brothers (sorry, Lisa) from being disseminated as “music” when there are real, talented artists out there who don’t have corporate backing, and therefore have to work much harder to get their sound heard. Even though their sound is SO MUCH BETTER. Only you can prevent formulaic melody and insipid lyrics. And forest fires.

For your viewing and listening pleasure, here's a video of Digney's big hit from the 80's, Girl with the Curious hand.

Please note how annoying MTV veejays were, even then. Also, find Gail Huff! She fails to mention in the linked-to profile that she got her start in Digney's video. I will mention that I got my start in one of Digney's videos: Do the Walk.

I will be happy to sign autographs upon my return.

Gulf Coast 2009: Frequently Asked Questions

Saint Francis of Assisi is totally okay with you giving him a hi-five, in case anyone was wondering.

So we're going to be heading out to New Orleans in less than a week to start our Gulf Coast adventures, and we here at States of Snark would like to address some frequently asked questions.


Question: The Gulf Coast? In August? Don't you know it's going to be hot there?

Answer: Yes, that's how we roll. Given that it's been 60 degrees and raining for the entire summer in the Northeast, except for some odd days here and there, we're going down south for some summer synecdoche--a small part representing the whole.

Question: Don't you know what that humidity will do to your hair?

Answer: Yes. It will be epic. Forget that little kudzu problem the folks down south are having--the tentacle-like masses of hair will be nothing even John Frieda can control. Or goats. That's what they're doing for the kudzu.

Question: What about Katrina?

Answer: Who's she? No, seriously, both Lizzie and I are aware of the massively destructive hurricane that tore apart the Gulf Coast. We are aware that much of the damage hasn't been repaired. We're also aware that Fox has a horrible show dedicated to this subject called K*Ville. (The asterisk is actually a fleur-de-lis, but I can't find the symbol for that).

Question: You don't like fried food, nor do you like meat that much. What are you going to eat?

Answer: Bananas Foster. All the time, except for when we're in Memphis, where we hopefully will be able to create a BBQ versus the braces post. For those of you not in the know from my constant bitching cheerful banter, I had to get braces this July to fix a little issue I had with my jaw grinding itself to oblivion, a problem created from the braces I had when I was a kid. Anyhoo, I'm planning on taking on the best bbq Memphis has to offer, and hopefully photographic evidence will ensue.

Please feel free to ask any other questions in the space provided below.

Reinventing the Tumbleweed

The tumbleweed blowing by is a popular cinematic trope used to illustrate barrenness, boredom, jokes that fall flat, etc. Lizzie and I spotted this fine specimen (right by mod Maude, our rental PT Cruiser) on a Pueblo in New Mexico, which was sort of empty. Is tumbleweed typecasting not just limited to their roles as movie actors? Are they hired/forced to roam about the earth indicating that your conversation is really tedious, or to call attention to eerie emptiness? Is it an Ancient Mariner sort of thing? How do tumbleweed(s) feel about this stereotyping? I feel these topics need to be explored in a new film, preferably a musical, where a plains tumbleweed goes to the city, pairs with a trash cyclone (you know, those magical wind-whipped mélanges of detritus usually located in corners or alleys consisting of candy bar wrappers, plastic bags and desiccated leaves) both learning from each other and discovering a rich inner self allowing them to explore who/what they are beyond the confines of their assigned societal (or cinematic) functions.

These are the things I think about, and these are the things Lizzie gets to listen to as we drive for hours. Luckily for me, not only does Lizzie listen to my ideas and theories, she expounds on them, always providing keen insight on logistics, such as proper tumbleweed lighting, etc.

Please list any thoughts on songs for Tumbleweed: The Musical! In the comments section. Any songs used will be credited to their respective composer.

Your actions, Sammy does not approve of them

This post is not about travel. This post is simply to let you know that my sister's cat Sammy saw what you did, and he doesn't approve. Not in the least.

Preparation H(epatitis)

So before Lizzie and I went to Africa, we had to get a bunch of vaccinations, including your run of the mill stuff like Tetnus, Polio, Diptheria, Measels, Mumps, Rubella, Hepatitis A& B, etc. Since neither Lizzie nor I had ever had the chicken pox, we had to get the vaccination for that, too, which is actually two shots, and gives you an ENORMOUSLY ITCHY red welt for about four days. Better than the actual pox, though, so I've heard. In any case, Lizzie and I went for our third round Hep A&B vaccine today, and we were very, very mature about it. That shit hurts! As you can see from the picture, my delts are off the chain, so there is no room to jam a needle in there. Plus there's that awful suctiony feeling as the needle comes out. Gah. My band-aid's pretty sweet, though, right? Hep Hep Hooray!

States of Snark: Flashback, 2007, New Mexico

Q. When will making jokes about buttes stop being funny?
A. Never

(Related, nice buttes!)

States of Snark Flashback: 2007, On Route from the Four Corners

No Passing.

States of Snark: Flashback, 2007, Four Corners

Four States Meet and Greet

Growing up, I lived on a street that straddled a town line. Being easily amused (in my youth, I mean) I would find great joy in being able to stand in TWO TOWNS AT ONCE! OH MY GOD! MY BODY IS BEING SPLIT BY AN ARBITRARY AND INVISIBLE LINE! In any case, now that I’m older, it takes much more to amuse me, something like, say, STANDING IN FOUR STATES AT ONCE! AWESOME! MY BODY IS BEING SPLIT MY MULTIPLE ARBITRARY AND INVISIBLE LINES! So it’s been reported to me by several sources (including my father and NPR) that surveyors are claiming that the “actual” location of the four corners is 2.5 miles away from where the monument is, due to faulty surveying back in 1868. (The monument was placed in 1875, I believe). Normally I’m not one for conspiracy theories, but I call BS on this one. For those of you who have never been to the four corners, let me tell you that it is a haul, and there’s no easy way to get there. Once you do get there, you have to pay a fee to enter, and then of course you have to buy a bunch of tchotchkes after taking your obligatory I’M IN FOUR STATES pictures. So, this whole “four corners is 2.5 miles away” is just a feeble attempt to lure tourists out in a recession to reclaim their dollars, while doubling as a ruse to trick us into going back to Utah. Just kidding, we’ll be visiting Utah again later anyway. Maybe during the Nevada trip.

Things of note from our trip to four corners:

There was an adorable Mennonite couple in front of us in line (you have to wait your turn to touch the four states) in full regalia (bonnets, stockings, etc), but oddly they had a much better camera than we did. I know because they asked us to take their picture. I’m guessing they’re not Old Order Mennonites, because a horse and buggy would not have cut it, travel wise. (Also, did you know there are many different orders of Mennonites? There are! Another job for wikipedia!)

Being the funniest people we know, we made signs to bring to our photo shoot. Some expressed our deep love for diet coke, others implied that we were bored, and the one pictured is a shout out to my Dad, who was concerned that we’d run into bandits (not to be confused with outlaws) while traveling through the New Mexico desert. While we did run into many odd folks on our journey, I don’t think any could be considered bandits.

OH MY GOD, LIZZIE'S IN FOUR STATES AND HER PURSE IS IN TWO!

States of Snark: Flashback, Santa Fe 2007

Georgia O'Keefe

Per the earlier post, a snow storm had routed our plans of touring Colorado first and then New Mexico, driving us south until one of the hotels Lizzie called reported back that it was, in fact, not snowing in Santa Fe. Santa Fe is a lovely city, full of adobe, overpriced turquoise and iconography. We visited a couple of museums, most notably the Georgia O’Keefe museum. It was a whole lot of awesome, but the best part was that Georgia seems to be in denial. When asked about the pretty obvious correlation between her art and what I like to call the lady parts, she was like “hell no you guys are all perverts those are just flowers”.

a) Flowers are reproductive organs. Next time your honey gives you a bouquet, think about the fact that you are getting a bunch of plant crotches. Sure, they have both male and female parts, but still, plant crotches. Ask my friend Bendta, she will tell you. They have ovaries. Look it up on wikipedia.

b) COME ON GEORGIA O’KEEFE! Has she just never looked, or is she playing some sort of trick on us? Note in her progression, she goes from painting “flowers” to painting “skulls and flowers”, which obviously represent the uterus.

Anyway, little did I know that this visit would inspire me two years later to write an award-winning haiku at my friends' (the aforementioned Bendta and the now-mentioned Sarah) art-snob party. (The award was a wizard’s hat. They told me I am a 4th level wizard of pretension.) Here it is, so the rest of you can bask in my pretension genius:

Georgia O’Keefe says
Flowers are not vaginas
Open your eyes, bitch

Thank you.

States of Snark: Flasback, Silverton CO, 2007

Alferd Packer, Silverton and an Ode to Winston

One of the stops we were planning on making while in Colorado was Lake City, home to Alferd Packer, a famous cannibal. You can find lots of info about him on the interwebs, but basically, Packer was trying his luck as a prospector, and genius-tastically decided to launch a winter expedition from Montrose to Gunnison, which is 65 miles. Packer and his 5 genius companions left on February 9th, and of course got lost in the snow. I’m going to hope that they ran out of provisions early, and that Alferd didn’t jump the gun and start eating his companions like, two weeks in (Hmmm…this subway’s been stuck between stations for twenty minutes now and I haven’t eaten in over an hour. Is it me, or does that dude look like a cartoon ham now…RARRRRWWW CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP) but in any case, Packer showed up near Gunnison on April 16th, alone, and when asked about his missing friends, claimed that he went scouting for food and came back to camp to discover one of his companions, Shannon Bell (who is a boy Shannon) roasting some human flesh, and shot Bell after he tried to eat him, too. Turns out that was sort of true except Alferd was the one eating his companions. Packer was tried and sentenced to death, but escaped. They found him and tried him again, this time reducing the charges to manslaughter, and he was given 40 years. He was paroled in 1901, and lived to the delicious, ripe old age of 65. In Lake city, there’s a museum dedicated to his trial, and of course there is also an Alferd Packer Grill.

But backing up a step. We were on our way to Lake city, but once again Tom Tom, the evil GPS tried to kill us. We drove through the lovely and adorable town, Silverton, pictured up top, which was terrifying in its quaint remoteness. After we passed through Silverton, Tom Tom decided that we needed to do some off-roading, and Lizzie wisely decided that perhaps we shouldn’t try traversing dirt roads in the mountains when it’d just been snowing. Whatevs. We turned around and decided to find a café in Silverton where we could use the bathroom, get a snack, and get directions (in that order). We found the Mobius Café, and Winston Churchill. For reals. We walked into the shop, and there was a huge dog, Townsend, flopped out on one of the couches. Surely against some sort of health code, but adorable, so we didn’t care. I started talking to the shop owner, Winston Churchill, about the Red Sox, because at this time the Sox were wiping the floor with the Colorado Rockies (ENEMY TERRITORY) but it turned out that Winston had done a stint in New Hampshire, so he understood the Red Sox fanaticism. As we were purchasing our smoothies (having already used the amazingly clean bathroom), Lizzie said “not that your town isn’t beautiful but…”

And Winston rejoined with “but how do you get out?”

And he once again provided us with what we needed, telling us we’d have to drive through the mountains to the nearest “big” town, which was, as Alferd Packer could’ve told you, Gunnison.

We were enamored of Winston, our bathroom-having, smoothie-making, directions-giving savior, and so a few months later Lizzie e-stalked him, and found out that he was off on a walk-about. We continued to follow him via the blog Lizzie found: http://insearchofwinston.blogspot.com as his friends and family began to worry about the turn his walk-about had taken. Sadly, Winston seemed to not want to be found, and his body was discovered in early July of this year in his beloved mountains. For those of you who, like me, were also worried about Townsend the dog, she’s fine and living with some friends in Lake City. Poor Winston. I hope he found whatever it was that he was looking for.

States of Snark: Flashback, Colorado 2007

Mark Twain is famously quoted as saying, with regards to the New England climate, "If you don't like the weather, wait a minute." He must've been pleased then, upon visiting the Rockies, to find that the same is true of Colorado. Picture one is our first afternoon in Colorado (Garden of the Gods, to be precise). It is 70 degrees out. Picture two is the next morning. Seriously? We decided to drive south until there was no more snow, and we ended up in Santa Fe.

Inaugural Address

According to the venerable Urban Dictionary, where one goes when words of choice have yet to be captured by Webster's and other "reputable sources," snark is best defined as the love child of "snide" and "remark." It has been further called "biting, cruel humor or wit." Shannon and Lizzie were snarking before it was cool (while walking, apparently, three hours uphill each way to school fueled only by cube steak and a burning desire to escape Southern Central Massachusetts). Long regarded as their own best source of entertainment (except, of course, for the brilliant, witty, wonderful friends, family, and colleagues reading this blog), the ladies decided to take the snark on tour - armed only with a series of cars named Maude, an endless supply of Diet Coke, a questionable sense of direction, and a fearless curiosity that leads to what they call "adventures" and everyone else calls "an odd way to spend their vacations." So, from the guano covered shores of Capetown to close encounters with the toothless denizens of Ashfork, Arizona; whether battling giant spiders with Jesus and the Killing Shoe, reliving the glories of the Midnight House of Wieners, or vehemently declaring "that IS a vajajay, Ms. O'Keefe", The State of Snark follows the (mis)adventures of Shannon and Lizzie through the 50 states and any other odd places that tickle their fancy. Remind us later to explore all that is wrong (and right) with the phrase "tickle their fancy."