Sunshine and skittles

Once again, I bring you sunshine and fucking skittles early in the morning.

I'm still bitter about the bicycle.  I fantasize revenge on an hourly basis.  I'm not good at letting things go.  It's probably something I should work on.  I should be more forgiving.

Nah.  Fuck that shit.

Regardless, I'm feeling a great sense of loss and anger here.  I wasn't half this upset when my fucking car got stolen ten years ago, also from the French Quarter.  I had no physical or emotional attachment to the car, it was just a car.  It was more of an inconvenience than anything else.  I was more pissed off at the dumb bitch who was with me that night, who was whining and complaining about the fact that "my baaaag was in theeeere!  With all my make-uuuuuup!!"  She had left her fucking bag in my trunk, against my recommendation (because she was a dumb bitch) and was seriously distraught that her make-up and the fucking PEN she bought for her husband were gone.  Meanwhile my CAR was gone.  It was unfuckingbelievable.  I wanted to smash her teeth in.

Anyway, taking my motherfucking bicycle is much more personal and even though I'm not even there and it's not really a direct inconvenience, at least not right now, I'm hugely angry and I'm feeling ready to smash some teeth in again.  FUUUCK.

Well.  That's all I really have to say about that right now.  On a happier note, I have to go now because I have to get dressed and look pretty to meet the boyfriend at the airport so he can come and put together this shelf I bought for the bathroom and help me hang these pictures which will hopefully improve my mood enough to enjoy the four days off in a row that I have.  Let's keep our fingers crossed here, people.

More fuel for the fire

Things were looking up for a minute there.  It was a good weekend, I got lots of sleep.  I made an appointment for someone to come finish my bathroom floor Wednesday morning. (they'd better fucking show up)  I went and bought lots of happy, clothes and a wine rack.  All kinds of shit, crazy on sale.  All over the neighborhood.

So yeah, I thought things might be on an upswing, I thought my mood might be about to improve, then I got a phone call last night informing me that the bicycle I left in New Orleans had been stolen.

Moth-er-FUCK-er.

I LOVED that fucking bicycle.  We went everywhere together.  FUUUCK.

This is the only picture I have.  I took it with my phone when I brought it home:

                


Now I have no fucking transportation when I visit.  Fantastic.  This is getting better and better.

It's quite a feeling, being fucked over in absentia.  I wasn't in the same zip-code, wasn't even in the same TIME ZONE.  And still?

I don't even know what else to say anymore.

Shadow Shot Sunday

Brooklyn, New York
at dba after the Saints game last week


dba is the best place to watch a Saints game around here.  Bar None is too intense, East Village Tavern is too disconnected.  dba is like home, especially when Simon is there with his Tchoup Shop, can you say crawfish macque choux, seafood gumbo and short-rib pies?  Best bar food ever.  Simon and Jack were sitting next to me on the plane back to NY when I went to New Orleans for Halloween, but I was too whacked out on Valium to hold a coherent conversation.  We exchanged Halloween stories and I passed out, that was pretty much the extent of our interaction until we landed.

I took this photo out back smoking and drinking with the boys after the game.  It was an easy win, a boring game, and we had already moved on to plotting world domination...

                


dba is one of my favorite bars on the planet.  I spent way too much time and money at their Frenchmen St. location when I lived in New Orleans.  They have live music every night down there.  My friend Julia works the door and has saved me a small fortune in cover charges over the past couple of years.

I left a ridiculously expensive pair of sunglasses at the bar after I took that picture that night.  My mission to retrieve them was quite the emotional roller coaster.  When I called the next day I was shocked and thrilled to hear that they had them.  Then the L train fucked me and I couldn't make it down.  I called back and they promised to hold them until the following day.  I made it down, ordered a drink and waited for the bartender to go look for them.  After looking everywhere, she couldn't find them.  Shit.

So I ordered another drink while she texted the bartenders from the previous evening to ask where they had left them.  As I finished my drink she came over to say, "Sorry, they said they were by the cash register, but I don't see them.  I've looked EVERYWHERE, even the office.  Maybe the clean up people took them, I don't know..."  Shit.  Depressing.

So, I ordered another drink to help with the train ride home.  And the barback started chatting me up.  I told him the tale and he said, "Oh man.  That sucks.  Whattaya gonna do though, huh?"

No shit.  Whattaya gonna do?  As we continued to chat and I finished my drink, the bartender came over.  She said, "Hey, give me your phone number, just in case we find them somewhere."  And the barback said, "Where were they supposed to be?"  And she said, "By the register" and he went to look and found them in about two seconds.

dba.  Best. Bar. Ever.

  vist Shadow Shot Sunday here.

Busted

I guess some people are paying more attention than I thought.  I got a text from Janson this morning:

"Surprise!  I just landed at JFK to surprise you!  Call me."

Hmm.

A few seconds later:

"LOL just kidding, I know u are here u crazy bitch!"

Ha ha.  Very funny.

So now he knows I'm here, God knows who else he's told.  Everyone's going to hate me.  Oh well.  So much for sneaking in and out of town under cover of night.

Janson's supposed to come to Mandina's for turtle soup with us tonight.  Seafood and turtle soup.  Lots of turtle soup.  I really don't care about the seafood.  I can take it or leave it.  The turtle soup I can't live without.  I'm wondering if I should say fuck it, damn the torpedoes, call every-fucking-body, tell them I'm here and they should come to Mandina's tonight.  Thirteen hours and counting, people, get it while you can.

Thirteen hours and counting!  Holy shit, what the fuck am I doing lazing around on the motherfucking internet!  Excuse me.  Sorry people.  Gotta go...

First flight out

Queens, New York

JFK International Airport 

6:30am

                  

I took Jet Blue's first flight out this morning.  The sky was pretty at 6:30 in the morning.  I left my apartment in the middle of the night, journeyed down to JFK, and was highly disappointed to discover that I was unable to get a cheeseburger before my flight.  The food places at the airport were only serving breakfast.  What the fuck kind of shit is that?  This is supposed to be New York, right?  I'm supposed to be able to get anything I want, anytime I want.  It was six in the morning and I wanted a cheeseburger and I couldn't get one.  Fucking BS, man.  Had to settle for a crappy ass slice of pizza because I'm sick of eggs in the morning.

I got up at four in the morning and got on a plane so I could spend 44 hours in New Orleans.  Nobody knows I'm here.  I'm not going to tell them, either.  By the time they read this and figure it out, I'll be gone.  I had no real reason to come down.  Just bored.  Had a couple of days off, missed my Sweetheart and decided to sneak away.  It's a routine by now.  Getting on a plane and coming down here is no different to me than getting on the subway and going to work.  I could get to the Jet Blue terminal in my sleep.  I almost did this morning, I didn't truly wake up until I started getting pissed off about the cheeseburger thing.

I hate to write and run, but I'm down to 36 hours now.  I didn't come down here to sit in a coffee shop.  I'm really not exactly sure what I DID come down here to do, (get laid) but sitting in a coffee shop definitely isn't it.  Until tomorrow...

Change of scenery

It's nice being back in New Orleans.  Things are reassuringly the same.  Same beautiful houses, same daily gun violence that never fails to blow my mind when I think about how few people live here and how many die each year.  The beignets are the same, the French Quarter hasn't changed.  Our football team will still give you heart failure down to the very last play of the game.  The streets are the same.  The city is the same.  The government is still hopelessly broken, and we still have the best musicians the country has to offer.

The only thing I found that was different was the Mississippi river.  I can't remember the last time I saw it so low.  A couple of months back it looked like this:

              


It's always been my favorite place to sit.  Of course it was one of my first stops when I got here Thursday.  Right now it looks like this:

                



Really trying to remember the last time I saw it like that.  Not quite sure what to make of it.  I kind of like it though.

wandering

I'm in New Orleans right now.  I came in for a family wedding, to visit Sweetheart before I snap in half from lack of sex, and to take a break from the apartment from hell.  It's been great being able to shower without a wall full of peeling plaster staring me in the face.  It's been especially great having a kitchen (and a honey who makes me duck paninis for breakfast).  I had forgotten the simple pleasures of a stove upon which to cook.  I had also forgotten that apartments usually have kitchen sinks and people aren't supposed to be doing their dishes in the bathroom.  So I'm really enjoying a comfortable place to crash.

The wedding was lovely, as far as weddings go.  As you may know, I'm not the biggest fan of weddings, especially after what happened last time.  But this one was painless, a beautiful ceremony in Jackson Square followed by a second-line through the French Quarter ending with a great reception overlooking the river.  Food, booze, family.  Very nice.

Aside from all that though, I really fucking miss New York.  I'm getting spoiled as shit up there and I hate myself for it.  I hate it because it's going to make it impossible to leave, and I'm going to have to leave because I can't stay in one place for too long and I miss the West Coast and I kind of have a plan to move back there, maybe Seattle or back to (shudder) the Bay Area, but the plan requires me to stay in New York for a while longer, like at least a year or two and by that time I'll be so used 3am sushi deliveries and a 24 hour Duane Reade half a block away that I will be hopelessly stuck there for all eternity.  Or at least until I can figure out how to open a bar somewhere in South America.

Brazil.  It should be in Brazil.

WHO DAT!!

I would be remiss if I didn't make mention of the fact that my (Superbowl champions) New Orleans Saints are squaring off tonight against the San Francisco 49ers, the city I formerly (and often begrudgingly) called home.  I had to laugh at the people who actually asked who I would be rooting for.  Seriously?  Is that even a question?

Oh, I forgot to tell you what happened at last week's game!  Jenelle and I decided to forgo Bar None, as it was disgustingly crowded three hours before the game and was only going to get worse.  We decided to go to dba in Brooklyn, another Saints outpost in NYC.  My friend James (also from New Orleans) met us down there as well.  We get there and I notice a guy running around who looks really familiar.  It took a little while, but I finally realized, holy shit, that's Jack.  He used to come into a bar I worked at ten fucking years ago.  I made a mental note to say hello when I got a minute.

Next thing I know, James is next to me saying, "Hey, wanderlust, have you met Jack?"

And I said, "As a matter of fact, I have.  I used to get Jack drunk ten years ago.  Shot of Jim Beam and a Budweiser, right Jack?"

The look on his face was priceless.

Of course he remembered me and of course we had lots of catching up to do.  Turns out he moved to San Francisco for a while and hated it too!  (OK, I'm being dramatic.  I didn't HATE living in SF.  Not all the time, anyway.  I just complained a lot)  He's much happier in NY, as am I.

That's the thing about New Orleans.  Once you've lived there a little while, it doesn't matter where you go.  If there's any sort of gathering involving New Orleans in any way, be it a Saints game, a crawfish boil, or oil-spill fundraiser, you WILL run into someone you know.  You just will.  Like it or not.  I once ran into a guy I used to HATE at the Black Magic Voodoo Lounge in San Francisco.  Fortunately for all involved, he was way too drunk to remember who I was.

But it's a beautiful thing, and I love it.  Anyway, I've got to go.  I have a date with James and Jack and the rest of the Who Dat nation.  Bar None has no idea what it's in for.

GEAUX SAINTS!!

I don't understand

OK, I know this story is kind of old news, but I don't have a TV and I don't read the paper or magazines, I really just kind of exist in my own weird little world, so I was vaguely aware about Lady Gaga wearing a dress made of meat and I was like oh, whatever.  No big deal.  I once saw a chick sew a bikini out of flank steak as a performance art piece during White Linen Night in New Orleans.  The whole thing was quite tedious, and it was kind of stinky once it was finally finished, most likely due to the middle-of-summer-in-New-Orleans heat.  It wasn't very flattering, either, once she put it on.

Well, I thought, if Lady Gaga wants to wear a stinky, unflattering dress or bikini to an award show or whatever it was, that's fine with me.  I don't really care what she does to be honest.

But then I read today that she did it to support gay rights and the repeal of the "don't ask, don't tell" policy, some crazy shit about if we don't fight for our rights we'll have as much rights as the meat on our bones, whatever the fuck THAT means and I was like what?  WHAT?  What the FUCK?

I'm one hundred percent behind gay rights, believe me, but I'm terribly, terribly confused here.  I'm trying my hardest to understand how a dress made of meat has ANYTHING to with gay rights, but I'm failing miserably.  Can anybody help me out here?

WHO DAT!!

Oh yeah baby.  It's that time of year again.  It begins tonight.

Some might say it began a few weeks ago, but I say pre-season, shmee-season.  I believe pre-season exists solely to make me paranoid about injuring our starters.  I was especially concerned about Drew, what with that whole Madden curse thing.  But I have faith in our boy.  I mean, this is the same quarterback who led us to the Superbowl.  The Saints.  To the Superbowl.  I still can't believe it...

Jenelle and I have a date tonight with the rest of the Who Dat Nation down at Bar None, a Saints stronghold in NYC.  I've heard that Vikings fans like to hang out there too, so tonight should be especially fun.  I am so excited my stomach is turning upside down.  Or maybe I'm just hungover.  Either way, I'm ready to STAND UP AND GET CRUNK!!  WHO DAT!! WE DAT!! YEAH YOU RIGHT!!

            

Shadow Shot Sunday

New Orleans, Louisiana
Down by the river

Play me something...

                

    

  
              

            

      http://heyharriet.blogspot.com/

Shadow Shot Sunday

New Orleans, Louisiana
Behind Jackson Square, again

          

                  

          

  http://heyharriet.blogspot.com/

Shadow Shot Sunday

New Orleans, Louisiana
Behind Jackson Square

    

        

      

     http://heyharriet.blogspot.com/ 

Sing for me

New Orleans, Louisiana

Mississippi River 

               

The short version of the long story

There have been requests from the blogosphere (Hi, Cassie!) and other random sources for me to please explain the story of how and why I moved from San Francisco to New York with a six-month layover in New Orleans in between.

OK.  No problem.  For those who know me personally and are familiar with the story, feel free to move along.  You're probably sick of hearing it by now.  For those who don't know me personally and are unfamiliar with the story, buckle in.  It's going to be a bumpy ride.

So.  Here we go.

After a complicated and convoluted initial twenty years of existence (another story for another time) I moved from Long Island, NY to New Orleans, Louisiana in 1996, found my Shangri-La, and remained there in a state of delirious bliss, my days and nights filled with music and dancing, great booze and even better food, family and friends, love and laughter.

After nine-ish years or so, I began to grow weary of my familiar bliss, car-jackings on my corner, murders twenty feet from my front door.  Yes, quite literally.  Twenty feet from my front doorstep.

So I began a search for a new home.

I wandered, as I always had, but this time with a purpose in mind.  Trying to find the next stop.  Quite frankly, the rest of the country left me cold.  Nothing seemed right.  Until I went to San Francisco.

Oh, San Francisco!  She was so sexy, so smart.  Gorgeous, truly stunning, natural beauty everywhere.  She really had her shit together, too.  I heard that all of the restaurants offered health insurance, and then someone mentioned medical marijuana delivery and I was sold.

So I moved there, got the best job I have ever had, and unfortunately discovered that the douchebag-to-cool-person ratio is painfully skewed in the wrong direction.  Again, remind me to tell you the story about The Incident With The Jumper Cables someday.  Please let me say, however, that what I miss the most about San Francisco is without a doubt the amazing, incredible, brilliant, talented, generous and beautiful friends I made there.  But in general, San Francisco and I, we just didn't see eye to eye.

So for four and a half years I struggled and tried to be happy in a city I really wasn't happy in and went to visit New Orleans on a constant basis and did my best to enjoy living in San Francisco and tried to make a square peg fit in a round hole and then I broke my knee in Peru.  This was about a year ago.  I was down for the count, out of work for several months.  While I was recovering, I had all the time in the world to think and travel and visit home (New Orleans) and realize WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING?!?!  I miss New Orleans, my family, my friends, my life, my joy, it's all there, what the fuck am I doing in San Francisco, living half a life, laughing only half my laughter, crying way too many tears?

So, while on a knee recovery visit to my beloved New Orleans, I made the decision that I would move back.  I tied up my loose ends, made some calls to San Francisco, told my job I wasn't coming back.  Gave notice to my apartment manager and room mate.  The decision was made, the deal was done.

Three days later, I got a phone call saying that my mother was dead.  Seems she jumped off the roof of an apartment building in Manhattan on Christmas Eve.  As a matter of fact, I was sitting right here when I got the call.

By the way, here I should probably mention that until that day, I had no idea where my mother was or what she was doing with her life.  For twenty-three years, I had only a vague clue where the woman was.  Suspected she was in Manhattan.  Didn't know for sure.  Again, another story for another time.

Turns out Mom owned an apartment in a co-op building in New York City.  Turns out she did pretty well for herself, in a round-about way.  Turns out the apartment was paid for, cash.  No mortgage due.  Lucky me.

There was no will, I'm the only heir, by default it goes to me.  Maintenance fees are due each month, at what amounts to a very affordable price, by NY standards.  So logically, it made sense for me to move in.

Regardless of the fact that I was in the middle of moving back to my beloved Nouvelle Orléans.  Nevermind that I was about to go to lots of trouble and spend a bunch of money dragging all my shit halfway across the country.  Forget that New Orleans was welcoming me home with arms wide open.

I had some things to think about.

Like I said, my move from SF to New Orleans was already in motion when I got the news, and initially it was all such a mess that I needed a minute to figure things out.  Where better than home, surrounded by friends and family, loved ones?  I packed up my shit, drove across the country, went to New Orleans, went to work, and starting thinking.

I decided to move to New York.

Regardless of how happy I was.  Nevermind that my day to day life was so fulfilling I really thought I was crazy for leaving.  Forget the fact that I had just (finally) met an amazing Sweetheart that put me on a pedestal, treated me like a queen and made me scream so loud in the sack I forgot other men even existed.

New York just seemed like the right thing to do.

So I packed up my shit, (again) and drove across the country (again) and moved my ass up to New York.

Here I am.  I just got here.  Don't even have a job yet.  We'll see what happens.  I'm sure it will all be fine.  I'm actually getting on a plane to New Orleans tomorrow morning.  Just a visit.  Only a week.  Had a ticket with Southwest I had to use up before the tenth.  I figured, where else but home?  Go dancing, visit Sweetheart.  Eat some gumbo.  Ride down by the river one last heartbreaking time.

Hmm.  That makes, what?  I've been gone eighteen days?  Eighteen days and I'm already salivating, scratching, clawing, foaming at the mouth, chomping at the bit, dying to get home?  How long will I make it in New York?  A year?  Two, three, five?  Who's taking bets?

Sorry.  I know I promised you a short story.  But it was, really.  It could have been much longer.  Trust me.  You want the long version?  Really?  Send me an email.  Make sure you've got time to spare...

Lazy day

New Orleans, Louisiana
City Park

            

        

    

See you soon...

Well, that was a lazy exit.  To be honest, it wasn't much of an exit at all.

When I was preparing to leave San Francisco six months ago, it was a "hurry up, get this shit done, everything must go, say a million tearful good-byes, holy shit I'm really leaving" sort of situation.

When I was preparing to leave New Orleans these past few weeks, it was more of a "it's a nice day, let's go to the pool, I can just leave this stuff here, I'll miss you, but I'll be back in two and a half weeks and then again in late September so I'll see you soon" sort of situation.

It doesn't even really feel like I've left.  I'm just taking an extended vacation, or working offshore for a while, as Sweetheart likes to say.  My friends aren't all that concerned, they know I can never stay gone very long.  Besides, half of them are storing shit for me, knowing full well that they'll be getting their closet space back sooner rather than later.

So yeah, no problem, no big deal.  See you soon.  Down by the river, or maybe poolside, mimosa in hand, like I never missed a day.

Snoballs on Piety

I know I've said in the past that Hansen's was the only snoball stand I would ever go to, but I lied, OK?  Sorry about that.  Hansen's is still the best as far as taste, no question.  Snoballs on Piety is perfectly acceptable taste-wise, but has won my heart for different reasons.  It's on Piety, (no shit, huh?) right off of Chartres.  They've been there about a month.  Go.  And when you do, make sure you say hello to this little girl:

                  


Actually, she'll probably say hello to you first.  She's not shy.  Trust me.  She's quite a remarkable little girl.  She managed to make a really shitty day completely disappear, at least for a couple of hours.

I was having a shitty day.  From the minute I opened my eyes.  Literally.  Shitty enough that on my way home from work I turned around on my bicycle to try to chase down my best friend's ex-boyfriend, after first texting and getting permission from my best friend, of course.  I was fully intending on starting a verbal altercation with him.  Oh, don't look at me like that.  He has it coming.  Trust me.

Anyway, once my shitty day was over, I decided to go for a long, angry bike ride, at the end of which I was hot and sweaty and still in a pretty shitty mood.  I figured it was a perfect time for a snoball, and Piety is only two blocks away and I'd been meaning to check it out because it was so close and blah blah blah so I stopped and meant to just get a snoball and eat it and go home, but I ended up staying for over two hours.

Because of Ava, of course.

Her parents own Snoballs on Piety, and she hangs out there with her mom all day when she's not in school.  She started talking to me before I even had a chance to order.

"Have we met before?"

"Um, I don't think so.  This is my first time here."

But she didn't give up.

"Where do you live?  Where do you work?  Have we met in the French Quarter?"

She sat down and talked to me while I ate my snoball.  We ended up looking at Youtube videos on my phone until the battery died.  Then she noticed the make-up in my bag.  She asked if she could wear some.  I said she should ask her mom.  Mom said sure.  So I painted her face up.  Then she busted out some nail polish.

"Can I paint your nails?"

"Yeah, sure.  Why not?"

I swear.  Something about letting her paint my nails completely defused whatever time bomb had been ticking inside me since I opened my eyes that morning.  Of course, my fuse ended up being relit a few hours later, but that's another story.  For a couple of hours, I was free.  She let me paint her nails, too.  We joked and laughed and took pictures of each other.  We jumped up and down on an old mattress in the back that she used as a trampoline.  She jumped on my back and made me run back and forth until my fucked up knee was begging for mercy.  I was free and I was happy and it was just me and Ava hanging out and life was good for a while.

I think I need to go to Snoballs on Piety more often.  I think you do, too.

        
P.S.  yes, Ava made the sign she's standing next to.  Not bad for an eight year old, huh?

My neighborhood

New Orleans, Louisiana

I love my neighborhood because there are colorful houses everywhere and Bacchanal is right down the street.  I love it because most of my family and friends live within a five block radius of where I live.  I love it because of stuff like this.  I love it because whenever you're running late you have a built-in excuse.  "Sorry.  The train was passing, I was stuck on the other side."  Those of you who live here know EXACTLY what I'm talking about.

I love the random and bizarre coffee shops, I love the fact that Elizabeth's, where I once had the most incredible paneed rabbit my taste buds have ever experienced, is only six blocks away.  I love riding my bike behind the floodwall down by the river, hoping not to get harassed by the harbor police.  I love the fact that my two favorite street names in the city of New Orleans, Piety and Desire, run parallel, and a block apart.  One right after the next.

Which makes perfect sense, when you think about it...

The time my neighbor got into a fight with the pool guy... naked

The following story is entirely true.  I am neither talented nor creative enough to come up with something that good.  Trust me.

This story goes back to when I was living at the Compound in New Orleans.  We had a nice pool back there, secluded enough that the more bohemian members of the Compound (myself included) were able to frolic in the nude on quiet days.

It was a quiet day, and my neighbor and I were enjoying some adult beverages and a bright, sunny, clothing-free day out by the pool.  My neighbor (who I shall refer to as Crazy Dude, or C.D. from here on out) had the entire day off, so he had a bit of a jump on me regarding the adult beverages.  I was running errands in the morning, so my party was just getting started.

Now, we'd been having some problems with neighborhood kids jumping the fence and "stealing" our pool, making a mess and leaving trash everywhere.  Most of us were pretty good about chasing them away.  C.D. was especially good about it.  So when three kids we didn't recognize came down the back driveway and started to get in the pool, C.D. was right on top of it.

"Hey!  HEY!!  GET OUT OF HERE!  You don't live here!  You don't belong here!  Unless you live here, you can't come in this pool.  You need to get out of here RIGHT NOW!!  Did you hear me?  Get out of here!  NOW!!"

At this point, the pool guy shows up behind them, all attitude.

"HEY!  Who do you think you are?  You can't talk to my kids like that!"

Damn.  Wasn't expecting that.  So I jumped out of the pool and wrapped a towel around myself.  I considered going inside, but curiosity compelled me to stay.  You know, to see what was going to happen next.  It was one of the best decisions I have ever made.

Now, C.D. was kind of a hotheaded dude, and had a bit of a temper.  With as much attitude as the pool guy was dishing out, I was genuinely surprised to see C.D. fall straight into apology mode.

"Hey, man, I'm sorry, bro.  I didn't realize those were your kids, man.  We've been having the kids in the neighborhood jump the fence lately... I'm sorry, man, really..."

C.D. was still in the pool (naked) at this point, and the pool guy was pacing up and down the edge, posturing and fuming over the fact that C.D. disrespected his kids.

C.D. said, "Hey man, look.  I'm really sorry, OK?"  He extended his arm towards the pool guy, in an effort to make peace and shake hands.

The pool guy said, "FUCK THAT" and smacked C.D.'s hand away.

Oh, pool guy.  Bad idea.

Remember that temper I told you about?  Yeah...

C.D. was up, out of the pool and in the guy's face before I had time to blink, or at least go get some popcorn for the show.  "You got a problem?  YOU GOT A FUCKING PROBLEM?"

As it turned out, the pool guy did indeed have a problem and was quite eager to settle it.  Whether his kids were watching or not, and whether C.D. had clothing on... or not.

Ladies and gentlemen.  You truly have not lived until you have witnessed a grown man get his ass kicked by a drunken, scrappy-ass, naked-ass hippie.  In front of his kids.  Truly.  I should have sold tickets.  I could've been a millionaire.

Ahh, the Compound.  Never a dull moment...