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I’m breaking the post about Day 3 into two parts because it would be too long otherwise and you might suffer from emotional whiplash.  Part 1 is a ruminative look back at a dear friendship while part 2 is about BBQ and boobs.  If you’re more interested in one or the other, feel free to skip around.

On my drive I encountered a Mardi Gras parade in Long Beach, Mississippi, which was apparently an excuse to bring out the confederate flags.  If you look closely at this picture, there are at least a half dozen of them visible and this was one hurriedly snapped photo along miles of spectators along the route.  Yikes.

nola_03_02After the somber visiting of the Friendship Oak, I was hungry (which Mary would have approved of heartily) and so I went in search of something interesting to eat that wasn’t a Waffle Hut.  Seriously, there is one of those things about every 3 miles.

But instead I saw a giant pig on top of a car advertising the restaurant Slap Ya Momma’s Barbeque.

I suddenly forgave Mississippi the confederate flags.



A pulled pork sandwich drenched in sauce on a delicious bun (kinda like ciabatta but not quite) and a side of mac and cheese with grated cheese added on top for extra cheesiness.  Happiness ensued.



I headed back to New Orleans, a drive that took a little more than an hour… and then it took me 90 minutes to get from the freeway to the hotel… and I didn’t actually make it to the hotel.

I thought I was timing it so I’d get there after the afternoon parades and before the evening Bacchus parade, but I totally forgot about the whole “let’s start whenever we damn well feel like it” timetable and there were street closures and what can only be described as complete gridlock.  I sat on one street without moving for a solid 30 minutes.  People were walking around, talking, taking photos of the traffic jam.

So I finally get to Poydras street, directly across from the hotel, and I can’t get to it.  I can see it… it’s right there!!!… but that side of the street is blocked off and there is nothing I can do but go back around the block again.  I finally gave up and begged the valet guy at the Harrah’s Casino to take my car.  The only reason he did is I think he feared I was going to hurt myself or someone with it if he didn’t.

Dinner was a complete failure.  We shall not discuss it.

I caught just a tiny bit of the Bacchus parade, complete with giant floats and laser lights.  Impressive – but I was late getting to a party thrown by Harrah’s at the Cornet, a restaurant/bar along Bourbon Street.  Invited guest were given a big bag of beads and, after signing a waiver saying you aren’t going to jump, ushered out onto the balcony overlooking the bacchanalian hordes.  I armed myself for battle…


Perfectly framing the Jesus/Hell sign was purely coincidental.

I wasn’t great at it at first and I suffered flashbacks to junior high when I was the fat kid picked last for every team sport.  Aim is not my strong suit and I think I may have poked out an eye or two.

But I got the hang of it – it’s more of a swing and drop kind of thing than an actual toss unless you have more athletic prowess than I do.

And despite the fact that I wasn’t asking, lots of women showed me their boobs.  This woman had just shown them to me before moving on to the people down the balcony from me to do it again…



I tried to get better pictures of people catching the beads I was tossing but it was everything I could do to not kill them or myself or drop the phone in the process so mostly I just got blurs but this one turned out okay…

nola_03_17The bearded guy just got my throw and the woman next to him was next.

More bar hopping took up the rest of the night.

Tomorrow it’s off for a Voodoo and Cemetery tour…. until then!