Since this blog is dedicated to fixing my memory problems, I just had a memory that I need to write down.
It was Lundi Gras in New Orleans. As per usual my friends and I were going to take drugs and go down to Frenchmen street. We did this every year. I don't know why. We just did it one year and kept doing it every year for like 5-6 years. Which is why I don't know which year it occurred.
But this is what would happen on those evenings. We would get dressed up in some Uptown apartment. Lots of glitter. Lots of eyeliner. Painful stuff. Then we would take in a healthy amount of alcohol and marijuana and pile into the back of a truck or something. The truck would stop at a spot on the St. Charles parade route where the interstate goes over the street. This creates just the right reverberation to be awesome. Especially if you are on drugs. Which we were.
Once the parade was over we would walk the rest of the way to Frenchmen. The walk was my favorite part. Going down through downtown, through the French Quarter, down Decatur street was something to do. And I always like to have things to do.
When we got to the Frenchmen area there were a lot of street drums and hippies. I hated it. And we would literally hang out there until like five in the morning, so it was always a long night. Which brings me to my story. (So far this hasn't been the story).
What would happen on Lundi Gras nights on Frenchmen is this: Dancing, Drum Circles, Rowdy Hippies, Rowdier Hippies, Stuff Gets Set on Fire, Fire Department Shows Up, We All Go Home.
This happened every year.
So on the night in question, knowing that it was going to be a long night, I found a place to sit. It was a couch in the middle of the street. There were always couches in the street on Lundi Gras. I don't know why, but they were always up in flames by the end of the night.
So being on acid, I made it my mission to protect this couch this year. I sat on the couch and drank my beer, and made sure that anyone who wanted to sit on the couch would not be setting it on fire anytime soon. This was my night. And as I mentioned before, I like to have something to do, so it brought be great joy. No dancing. No hippies. Just Brent and a beer and a couch that was not on fire.
Over the course of the night, I began to identify my enemies: people who would try to light my couch on fire. There were a few hippies or gutter punks or whatever that were eyeballing my couch, and had already set some other shit on fire that night.
Finally they approached. They tried to be nice, but I just told, flat our "Look I know why you are here, but you can't set the couch on fire."
They agreed, and in less than five minutes half the couch was ablaze. I ran over and dumped my beer all over it, and said "Look! I thought you said you weren't going to set it on fire!"
Too late. The rest of the couch was on fire. I sat there. Disgusted. Smoking a cigarette.
I went to tell my friends about it. I was still worked up. They didn't care. It was a hard thing to explain, and all my friends were more the sort to set things on fire.
Soon after, the fire was out of control, and we all got sent home.
I have always thought of this story as a indictment of the hippies that night. These tender fucking hippies who had no integrity whatsoever. But while I was showering today, I realized that probably those fucking hippies hauled that couch out of some hippie apartment so that they could set it on fire. And here some guy plops down on it, and tells them they can't light it on fire.
I guess I'm trying to say that I was out of line. And I'm sorry.