43 - Fruit Fly Fag Hag

Kermit Ruffins is a god, I am not kidding.

Bro and I took the Magazine bus downtown and walked through various Festival venues eating.  Had beer and some swe-e-eet gumbo and a po-boy wilth red onions and some rum drink or other and went around watching people.

These people don't need watching.

*AHEM* Watching people, sorry.

Who knew there was a party going on?  Jeez.

Man, guitar, motorcycle. Roy, take note.

Fetched up at Lafittes in Exile, “the oldest gay bar in the country,” and reconnected with a bartender he knows from his days as a regular.

There's no place like home.

Hung out on the balcony with a hilarious lady from Mississippi and her gaggle of friends.

“I’m not a fag hag. I hate that word fag! And I’m not a hag, that is so insulting. I’m a fruit fly.”

Former football player dude put his arm around my shoulder and described in detail what he’d love to do to that hunky man down on the corner. Hunky man was waiting for a cab, maybe five ten, two twenty, bald, white mustache. Said he’d give me a hundred dollars to go down and tell him he wanted to tie him up and fuck him. I should have taken him up on the offer -- hey, a hundred bucks is a hundred bucks -- but a few drinks later he went down there himself. Hunky man was smiley enough but he got in a cab and went away. We all cheered from the balcony but a strike out is a strike out, isn’t it.

Spent a few hours hanging on the balcony of a gay bar. I felt like I had an exclusive license up there to look down the blouses of girls walking past underneath. Well, everyone else was either gay or a fruit fly fag hag. There were also some passers-by in suits and nice dresses and we wondered if they were all slumming from the big Republican convention. “Where’s Sarah Palin?” They ignored us. Maybe they were wedding party people. Who knows? Who cares?  Here's the streetcar we didn't take.

St. Charles streetcar, as seen from a lurching taxicab