CCT Presents: Crappy Vacation Pt. 2

Soooooooo....... We dun did screwed up.

Pretty sure Squeakers broke her toe.

Good news: there was a vet down the road. Skippy's mom drove me over and we were able to get in within minutes. Bad news: They only dealt with cats and dogs. Despite that, the vet did his best to treat her.

His assistant held Squeakers down while he finished trimming her nails. I know velociraptors weren't his specialty and all, but I do wish he handled her more with care. There's this thing called the quick and they almost always catch it on Squeakers. The usual remedy is to pat some cornstarch/flour on it and it'll clot, but this guy's solution was to "cauterize" it with the dremel. That meant he kept sanding the damn nail down.

Me (internally): "Umm, excuse me, doctor, but could you fucking kindly NOT?"
Me actually: "Can you please just use the kwik-stop? LIKE NOW?"

He probably would've grinded her toe off if I didn't speak up. I wasn't convinced the toe was simply "irritated", but we had to hit the road for our big trip to San Diego. If it didn't improve in the next 24 hours, we'd find the nearest exotic pet hospital.

So next morning, we're at an animal hospital in New Orleans.

Turns out the toe had dislocated but relocated itself back into place. They taped it just to be safe. Squeakers was not happy.

She really did. Even the New Orleans vet was like, "Yeah, raptors jack up their toes all the time. It's not your fault."

There was one time Squeakers was trapped in the towel and she was so desperate for freedom, her tail fell off so she could squirm out. Yes, she is willing to rip off her ass to get away from me. That is a deep hatred.

We drove back to our hotel in the French Quarter and got her settled in.

I ain't gonna sugarcoat this like a beignet, New Orleans smells like shit. It is a mixture of sewage, weed, old shrimp left in the sun, and liquor. Garbage everywhere, mysterious brown puddles all over the roads, if you can even call them roads. Hurricane Katrina tore the city up and they are still repairing after all these years.

Based on actual people.

Rewinding- We'd actually made it to New Orleans the previous night and did a quick venture down Bourbon Street solely to find food. It was uber late and I felt like I was gonna die. There was a guy standing outside a place at the tail end of the street claiming the kitchen was open late and beer was cheap. The drinks were lumberjack quality: tall,strong, and inspired you to climb a tree.

Everything on the menu sounded really good so I ordered "A Taste of New Orleans". It included three of Nawlins' specialties: seafood etouffee, gumbo, and red beans and rice.

The gumbo was pretty good too. The rice and beans were a little bland. But dat etouffee tho. I tasted that and knew instantly what I would title this chapter.

But it wasn't. There was a quick, but disappointing trip to the Acme Oyster House but everything else I sampled was of the liquid variety. The accurate title is...

Note: Once you've had New England oysters, you don't go back. Quality over quantity. And no one outside of Boston knows how to make a proper oyster shot. That is a fact!

Fast forward- We got back to the hotel, got Squeakers settled, yadda yadda. We set out for a full day out on the town. By that time I was ready to get my draaaank on.

My first beverage choice couldn't have been poorer.

Skippy went back to the hotel after the first bar to drop off souvenirs and take a quick nap because his stomach was aching. Poor choice #2: I stayed on Bourbon Street when I should've called for a timeout too. I was already feeling that hurricane... and the mojito, wait, was it two mojitos and a hurricane or a hurricane and two hurricanes and a mojito?....

I should not have been left unattended.

I bumbled up and down the streets until my dad texted me,

A mellow place to chill out, sip on a beer and enjoy Nawlin's life? Hellz yeah!

BIG NOPE. 

ALL THE NOPE. 

I get to the place whose name sorta rhymes with "Bing-Bing's" and find a hole in the wall with the bass booming so hard, it rattled my intestines. I feared I might crap myself.

The fish bowl monger wasn't too chipper with me. Then again, I wasn't too sober. I simply stated the fact he had false advertising and should soon correct it. He shrugged and told me, "Pffft, don't like it? Tell the manager." 

     Dear Eyebrowless Fish Bowl Monger, 

     I just ate a dozen oysters, I've had my intake of saltiness for the day. 

     Good day. :D

^ Hey look, a typo!  ^

Yes. Yes I did. I marched directly across the street to the tequila bar (no mixing, just straight up), and made it clear to Fish bowl monger he'd lost my business.

I took a seat at the bar and could tell Tequila Guy was judging me, which I understood. It's a party town and I looked young and stupid. I also looked like I was walking with one foot already in the bag. And I was. I can't even call it a nice brown bag you'd stow baguettes into, it was a wet plastic bag metaphorically tangled around my ankle.

But then I ordered up a glass of George Clooney's Casamigos reposado with a lime wedge and sipped on that baby with my pinky up. He realized, "Oh good, a drunk with some class."

Two tequila shots and a --some other drink I shouldn't have had-- later,



http://giphy.com/gifs/pee-wee-herman-tequila-national-day-YhqAgNnSiwCs


Skippy texted me saying he's feeling better and ready for round two.

He arrived and drunk me realized, "so the turns have tabled". Twas I with the sour stomach now. I nursed glass after glass of water while he made friends with Tequila guy.

He drank tequila like agave was going extinct. I don't remember how many he tried, but I knew we were there for five hours and got the bartender's email address.

Poor choice #3: I didn't eat.

Poor choice #4: I may or may not have tasted his drinks. And Skippy may or may not have beat some guy in a drinking contest. "It was only beer," he said. "It was easy," he said.

Then we got the hookup,

I can neither confirm nor deny there were 6-7 nurse sharks and/or "bitches" involved that night. I will say we went to an aquarium, it rained in some way, and I woke up smelling like perfume. Was it in that particular order? Maybe, maybe not. That's up to your imagination.

And a grapefruit did save me. My grandparents gave us a few from their backyard before we left Florida. We kept them packed in the cooler with the road beer.

....That didn't sound right. It stayed in the bed of the truck!

The hangover wasn't too bad. No headache or nausea--well, actually there was that moment before bed,

I had it under control until that gut squeeze. I don't blame you, Skippy. I blame the hurricane that started it all and the vodka that ended it all.

Lucky for me we only had oysters that day.

We booked the hotel room an extra night just to recover. My stomach was doing cartwheels all day. Keeping down half a gator burger was near impossible. What I really wanted were Cheerios but apparently God was still ashamed that I peed in the men's bathroom and was not done delivering his punishment!

But I did get my coffee from Cafe du Monde. And I did make an offering to Marie Laveau, the Voodoo Queen's shrine in one of the voodoo shops. I washed away all that bad hoodoo.

So what did I learn about New Orleans?

You can tell the real bums from the fake bums by the smell. If you look between the cracks in the sidewalk, you'll see old beads and broken beer bottles. Every building is haunted. Cafe du Monde is open 24/7. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT get the Hurricane if you plan on drinking more. In summary, the New Orleans French Quarter is a filthy old hole full of drunk weirdos and quite possibly vampires. 

And I'd go back in a heartbeat!

See you in Pt. 3!

CCT Presents: Crappy Vacation Pt.1

You're probably wondering where the hell I've been. The answer: EVERYWHERE.

I fulfilled dreams. I saw more things in a week than most see their entire lives. I saw things. Good and bad. I either shamed my ancestors or made them proud and granted them the eternal glory they've been waiting for.

My people, lend me your eyes. For this is...

I'll start by saying I don't live in Rhode Island anymore. I've technically been homeless since the first (second??) week of May.

Why is that you ask? Well, Skippy got orders for San Diego. He gets to say bye-bye to recruiting and hello again to working on a ship. Ever since we got the news we've been dicking around playing video games mapping out what we were going to do. It's a long, LONG, long ass journey from one corner of the country to the other. We can't just drive through without checking some stuff out. 

Especially for me. This was my chance to explore the west. Not just the wild west or the west coast, I mean ALL OF IT. ALL THE WEST!

The furthest west I'd been was the gulf side of Florida. (Sad right?) This wasn't going to be any old road trip. This was going to be an...

http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m814cpC1pe1qb1ou4.png

Our itinerary looked a little something like this:

To make this journey even more interesting, it wasn't just going to be me and Skippy.

I have a.... very.... um... "unique" pet. I have had her about 13-- almost 14-- years now. While experts claim the average lifespan of this particular animal is around twenty years, I fear she's actually immortal. Her diet mostly consists of Doritos, ice pops, and human flesh. She favors my flesh.

I own a dinosaur and she is determined to become more legendary than the Loch Ness Monster.

In real life, the average human eye will see her as no more than an adorable, squeaky little bird, but I believe this is what she truly sees when she looks in the mirror: a monster. One day, man will discover an ancient tome buried in the Mariana Trench and should the dead language carved upon the slab be translated and sung, Squeakers will break from her feathered meat-vessel and destroy us all. Her wrath will be grater than Cthulu's.

For now she is my prisoner. 

In truth, she stayed in a carrier but to keep the illustrations pleasing to the eye, we'll just say she hung out in the back seat of the truck constantly eating shit.

Our first task was to get from Rhode Island to our family in Florida. Normally, the drive is about 20 hours. We figured it would take 2-3 days with Squeakers because once nighttime hits, she gets stressed and wants out of the car.

Did it take us 2-3 days? Oh, NAY NAY. It didn't even take us 4 days.

We drove the whole damn week because 75% of I-95 was under construction and they liked to block the left lanes at random intervals. Virginia was the worst of it.

It took us almost six hours to drive 100 miles. I'm surprised we got to Pedro-ville at the end of the night. What's Pedro-ville? The true name is South of the Border and it's... I can neither confirm nor deny it is a dumpster strung with a billion twinkling Christmas lights.

Anyways.

We made it to Florida and dropped Squeakers off at Skippy's parents' house. She got to bond with their pets: Chunk, the cowardly dog; Garfield, the normal cat; and Noah the Hutt.

Chunk wasn't sure what to think of her. Garfield was curious for like 2 seconds, but there was a strange relationship forming between her and Noah, an alliance you might say. They understood each other's cosmic powers and great love for food. A personal, unspoken declaration of peace between the feathered and feline communities was made. While no violence broke out, they still observed each other with caution.

Now that we were free of the raptor, we got to have a wonderful time visiting family and catching up on life. We decided to drive to Disney in the middle of the week when it wouldn't be so crowded.

I made a mistake in Disney. God Himself delivered punishment. I committed an act that had Walt squirming in his cryogenic freezer grave.

I actually toned down the walls and tarps in that picture. The late Maelstrom was covered, but the shops were still open. I was surprised to see they were still selling the little troll figurines that resembled the ones on the ride. I contemplated getting one but couldn't find any that really spoke to me. Instead, I went outside feeling personally victimized by Frozen, knees threatening to buckle as I tearfully glanced at the Norway pavilion one more time. The mighty urge to scream filled my throat.

We then walked to Germany and reunited with one of our favorite "characters" in the park.

There were two women ahead of me and we all sorta looked at each other, shrugged and pretty much said, "Screw it, if we gotta pee, we gotta pee. Let's go."

What the guy didn't mention was how busy the men's bathroom was. There were around ten urinals against the wall and two stalls on the opposite side. The women went in first so I had to stand there awkwardly pretending to be fascinated with the floor.

It was actually pretty amazing how many puddles and toilet paper were on the floor. Honestly men, your bathrooms have perma-filth and I have no clue how the hell you do that.

Immediately after that, it started raining. Not ordinary rain or even advanced rain. This was full blown Florida dump-chunk rain.

This is where it gets squirrely.

It kept raining and raining and we were soaked to the undies. We decided to head back toward the hotel real quick.

"Real quick" HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

We left through the secret entrance at World Showcase that connects to Disney's Boardwalk Resort. The rain died out a little so we stood under a trellis/gazebo to see what it would do. One of us managed to get the forecast up on our phones and it said the rain would last a couple hours.

Before we started back for the hotel I had to find a bathroom. I was not physically capable of corking it any longer. I tried that crap last time we went to Disney and I nearly pissed myself in front of Magic Kingdom.

I knew there were public bathrooms by the stairs leading to the resort. I could feel all of my organs now so without saying anything, I ran to the hotel. Like Seabiscuit BOOKED IT. Each step was more painful than the last but I got there just in time and proceeded to evacuate the other liter of beer from my bladder.

I walked outside. Skippy was gone.

I texted him.

Me: "Where'd you go?"

Skippy: "On a shuttle heading back to the hotel. I thought that's where you went."

Turns out I peed a little longer than I thought.

We were staying at the Old Key West Resort and it had very few shuttles. The only way to get there was to hop on a shuttle going to one of the parks than change over to another. Skippy took one going to MGM. Minutes after that one left, a bus going to Disney Springs* pulled in.

*Disney Springs, the area formally known as Downtown Disney.

Because it's Florida and normally 300'F outside, Disney likes to blast the A/C on the buses.

Me: "The bus is cold and foggy and I think I'm hungry."

I rode the bus over to Downtown Disney feeling smited but figured my luck would turn around soon. There was a ferry in the lagoon that went directly to Old Key West.

My thoughts: "Awesome. The rain is finally lightening up and I'll be back at the hotel in about ten minutes."

I ran over to the ferry station splashing through the puddles aaaaaaaaaannnnnnd.... well,

Me: "Aaaah!!! Just friggin ran to the ferry. Not running while its thundering. FML. I have been smited epically."

Skippy: "LOL that sucks"

He was still waiting for a bus to the hotel at this point. He told me to chill there and he'd come pick me up.

I considered running toward the parking garage but I had to pee again. (Hey, it was A LOT of beer). And I was freezing.

I looked around considering my options. I needed a bathroom. I needed a decent, but moderately priced jacket. I needed somewhere safe and dry to hunker down in. 

I turned. A shiver rolled down my back as I reluctantly gazed at the distant building that fit all my needs. Of course, of all places, THAT would be my savior.

As I sat under the grand stairway that lead up to the theater, I wondered if maybe I'd treated Cirque du Soleil a little too poorly in the last few years. Perhaps I had turned my back on them too soon.

Cirque du Soleil, ever my metaphorical big brother. You may be a screw up, but you were still there in my pathetic time of need. 

And honestly, I think your new touring show looks kinda cool and you're heading back on the right track. 

Truce?

Turns out the jacket I bought had built in headphones and that's pretty badass. I spent half an hour trying to figure out how they worked and finally found the cord hidden in a secret pocket by my right kidney. I then spent a bit of time perusing through Pandora.

"Goodbye Blue Sky" started playing on my Pink Floyd station which I found very appropriate for the situation. I sat leaning against Cirque's white wall staring at the flooded, empty streets of Downtown Disney listening to songs from the album,The Wall. 

I had a moment. It was a moment of mixed emotions, but it was mostly this:

I firmly believe I was.

I don't know what inspired me after that, maybe it was Pink Floyd chanting the words, "RUN, RUN, RUN!", but I decided to run through the rain as fast as I could.

Me: "I'm at the rainforest bar"
                                  (No answer)
    "Still on da bus?"
                                  (Nadda)
    "DUDE?!?!????!!!"
                                  (Noodle)

(Hour later)

Skippy: "On way. Sorry bad reception."

Me: "From where, the North Pole?! I ordered food."

Skippy: "LOL."

Me: "At Rainforest Cafe and my grunting is audible."

He then sent me a video of a fish flopping around in the Key West parking lot. (Possibly a mudskipper??) By the time he got to the restaurant, I had already eaten dinner and was pretty darn drunk.

Oh, and we did make it back to EPCOT in time for fireworks and a ride through the golf ball. And drunk ol' me really wanted a picture next to my Leave A Legacy square.

I was looking real pretty... pretty sloshed. I think I slept with one foot on the ground and my head over the edge of the bed that night.

Little did I know the Disney drunken escapade would feel like nothing compared to what would happen in the days to come.

And that's where I have to stop. 

All I can say for the next chapter is this little piece of advice: If you want to stay in New Orleans for two days, book the hotel for three.

Stay tuned. Bwahahahahaha.  :D :D :D :D