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Thursday night we hopped a plane to New Orleans with the excuse of
Exoticon for the weekend. I hit the hotel and found others who'd
shown up a day early eating in the hotel restaurant.
Yes, eating hotel food in New Orleans.
I got a shower and badgered them into catching the shuttle down to
the French Quarter. Steve, a con whore from way back, had lived there
a couple of years before so he guided us from bar to bar in search of
cheap drinks and cheap thrills. We kicked off with hurricanes, no
recommended for those who suffer even mild hangovers, on Bourbon
Street before seeking less touristy surroundings. First up was The
Dungeon. The place is a series of forgotten spaces between and on top
of the wall-to-wall buildings of the Quarter. First you duck through
a tiny door, slip down an alley barely wide enough for my shoulders,
into a couryard the size of a twin bed, then into a long narrow room
just barely big enough for a long bar. Up a set of stairs that
reminded me of degenerate haunts back in the 80's and into an
elevator-sized dance room, one wall covered entirely by a mirror so
it didn't feel so cramped. Duck through a dark doorway and you're in
a small back room with another little bar. The joint was done out in
Masquerade style, all black with demonic paintings and silly Satanic
themes. Pretentiously alternative, but there was a cute bartender
serving up stiff drinks and a sleazy stripper on the dance floor
admiring herself in the mirror as she slid against anyone that didn't
get in the way of her view of herself.
The demonic paintings on the wall draped in fake cobwebs didn't scare
me nearly as much as the creepy suburban conservative zombie older
couple necking in front of them, but everyone has their own phobias I
suppose. Degenerate DM let her ball and chain drag her away from the
festivities while the rest of us partied on. We trekked across the
Quarter, stopping by Cafe du Mode for beignets and a desparately
needed bathroom break, and on in search of Steve's old haunt, the Red
Dragon or something. It was closing for the night just as we got in
the door so we hit my favorite New Orleans bar The Abbey. It's a
little joint that reminds me of the backside of The Point with more
interesting decor, a real Quentin Tarintino post-modern-retro style.
Add to that the staff sticking with theme of the night, Really Cute
Bartenders, as well as a hottie of a DJ spinning the most amazing
ecclectic mix of old stuff, and 24/7 operating hours, AND some
personal sentimental reasons for liking the joint and it's tough to
pull myself out of there. But sometime after 3 we stumbled out to
catch a cab.
Friday I pretty much spent the whole day in bed. Yeah, I WANTED to
run amok in New Orleans but my stomach and head dictated otherwise. I
crawled out around 4 and socialized with the rest of the con whores
from way back, then went back to bed for another nap. Degenerate SW
arrived and we changed into appropriate attire and hit the town.
There were a couple of lame parties at the con but why suffer with an
inferior con when Bourbon Street is just a bus ride away?
Plenty of water and coffee later I'm almost ready for festivities
again but I opt for beer instead of the harder stuff so I can
maintain consousness, and keep the contents of my stomach. We hit The
Dungeon to ogle the same bartender as the night before. A couple of
the con folks wandered in after us but they didn't seem to be
interested in hanging out with true degenerates. We got pointed to
another bar by a local and hit the Shim Sham Club, the local
equivalent (as if there could be an equal) of the Star Bar. Yet
another super cute waitress served up $1.50 PBRs and smiles, then
we're off again back to The Abbey for a last round.
Saturday we skipped out of the con daytime activities to wander town.
We ate at Mother's to kick things off (I had the big combo platter,
degenerate SW had the Ferdi Special po' boy - a fuckin' awesome
sammich with "the world's best" smoked ham, roast beef, debris,
shredded cabbage, pickles, creole and dijon mustards) then just
walked around like tourists. En route back we hit the Shim Sham for
happy hour $2 margaritas.
At the hotel we arrived just in time to catch Dawn Marie's entry as
Queen of Exoticon, then got into costume for the Electric Psycadelic
Swinging Pussycat Lounge party put on by the Reverand of Jonestown
After Dark. The music was hot, but the temperature was hotter in the
stuffy little suite. I had to abandon the amazing green velvet
smoking jacket and stick with the hiddeous orange, green, yellow and
brown shirt and scarf (it was a mod 60's Austin Powers style party.)
We were the only ones brave enough to go with the theme in costume
though, so we sucked down a few drinks and wandered the con in search
of fun. But there wasn't a lot to be had. Exoticon is a tiny little
convention that doesn't have nearly the degenerate contingent of
MOC's heyday, or even the equally small Fantasm. (Speaking of, they
had ripped off a phrase we'd coined at Fantasm for use in their pins
- "668, neighbor of the beast" we used to describe our room.) But as
mentioned, Exoticon was just the excuse used to get me to New Orleans.
The next day we wandered the town again, had a last fabulous meal,
and hit the airport to return with throbbing feet and tired livers.

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