So I'm back. I went to New Orleans last weekend to see the Vagina Monologues. It was an amazing experience - very inspiring to hear all those women talked about their vajayjays. No, really, it was.
And I love loved New Orleans. As I told you, I had never before been, so it was a completely new experience. It was everything I expected it to be - filled with music and life, colorful and a little bit dirty. OK, maybe a lot dirty. But it somehow only adds to the appeal.
I ate lots of delicious crawfish. The French Quarter Festival was going on, so I ate small portions of the best food the city has to offer. Crepes. Etoufee. Beignets. Go ahead - be jealous. I know you are.
Aaaand I saw Berger from Sex and the City. Yeah, that guy from Office Space. Just walkin' around NOLA. OMG.
So New Orleans is wonderful. It's all the good things about the South in one place. Food. Music. Parties. Fashion.
That last part was a lie. Trying to critique the fashion choices of the wonderful people of New Orleans is like critiquing the morality of the choices made by rock stars in the 1960s and 1970s - they were usually way too out of it to be subject to the common laws of morality.
Same of the people of NOLA, god bless 'em. At least the ones I saw. Especially on Bourbon Street and in the French Quarter.
I saw one lady wearing what can only be described as tennis shoes with springs for heels. Normally tennis shoes have some sort of built-in springiness to add bounce to your step so your heels don't get shredded. These springs were plastic and rubber, and visible.
They were so awful that I'm clearly having a hard time describing them.
I saw one white girl with dreadlocks. Actually, I'm surprised I didn't see a lot more than that. I hate when white people try to sport dreads. I love dreads on black people; whites, not so much. Your hair just looks dirty. Probably because it is dirty.
My friend told me once that a white friend of hers had dreads and not only did she not wash her hair for weeks, but she would grease it up so the dreads would stay. Ew. Vom vom.
Bourbon Street after midnight is an entirely different universe. I'm convinced of it.
Fashion and otherwise, it's pretty much beyond comprehension.
I saw a stripper. She was wearing only a bra and thong underwear. And, um, they didn't even match. The bra was orange and the thong was white. Really? If you're going to be outside, pretty much naked, shaking your ass at people and hoping for some dolla dolla bills, y'all, at least wear a matching set. Honestly, stripper, your laziness astounds me. Gawd.
As far as the other outfits that night? I don't remember. I'm sorry. I can't. Don't hate me.
I go to New York this weekend. I know, I'm such a jet setter. More from that later. Until then, majorly yours.