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Bridge Over Troubled Water
Written on 2002-09-13, at 1:27 a.m.

dizboy's disturbing daily diet...

3 Slices Pot Roast

1 Pint Milk

1 Side Carrots

4 Slices Josie's Pizza

1/2 Liter Sprite

John Live*

*Not at all live...

Right then.

I didn't die, or fall into the Mississippi river.

I just got very, very lazy.

Where to start?

New Orleans...

There is something that happens in New Orleans every Labor Day weekend. 

This something is called "Southern Decadence". 

The gist of it is that it's sort of a Gay Mardi Gras, where the seedy, soiled streets of the Big Easy are flooded with every queer stereotype known to man, and a few that I think are yet to be discovered. 

Now, the funny part...

...and there is a funny part...

The funny part is that I had NO IDEA that this was happening.

Nate and I arrived in the outskirts of New Orleans at about 4am, after a hellish drive for which I slept the majority of the way. 

Not that it's hellish traveling with Nate, I just have a terrible aversion to long drives, especially at night. 

So, after sleeping for about 5 hours, I am awakened to Nate's mother bounding into the guest room, jumping onto my bed, and yelling "Get up get up get UP! Sleepyhead!!!".


This was going to be an interesting trip.

It was decided that for dinner, we would be going out for sushi.

This didn't sit well with me for two reasons. 

1) I hate sushi, in all aspects...no exceptions. 

2) Sushi. In a little agricultural town on the outskirts of New Orleans. 

Not exactly the place I'd pick to try it for my first time. 

Well, as interjections of my distaste of anything eaten raw fell on deaf ears, we prepared for dinner, and then into town for a night in the Quartier Francais. 

That's the French Quarter. 

Nate tells me that his friend will be joining us tonight. 

His gay friend.

"Is he cute?" I ask. 

"I don't know...he's really straight acting though." was Nate's reply.

Just great, I thought...my favorite type of fag...the pompous, disenfranchised, A&F wearing "straight acting" boy with nothing more to do than sneer about how other gays give them a bad name. 

I've coined a word for those types of queers:


*Patent Pending.

So I decide to launch a preemptive strike, donning my new favorite shirt, the dark brown one with fuzzy tan letters reading "lower east side" on it, which I purchased while shopping with Nick at Urban Outfitters back in New York.

Because, well...it makes me look really emo.

And I'm pretty sure that I'd do me were I to see me in that shirt. 

Not that I wanted anyone to do me, I really just wanted to look all anti-A&F.

Someone announces that a car is pulling up, and it's the friend.

We're all waiting around in the main room when he comes to the door.

He walked in, opened his mouth...

And a giant purse fell out.

No, not even a purse.

A Prada backpack.

No no no...not gay enough...

A seven-piece Louis Vitton steamer set came tumbling out. 

Now, understandably, I'm pretty gay, and make no apologies for it, but this boy put me to shame in every way, from his finely tweezed eyebrows, to his shiny Bed-Stu's. 

I looked at Nate, who obviously caught on, since he was trying desperately to avoid eye contact.

"If he's straight-acting..." I said, "Then I'm Vin Diesel."

After a dinner which consisted of me sitting at a narrow bar, watching a Chinaman with a southern drawl slice up indistinguishable pieces of fish, while I tried to explain why I needed a waiter so that I may order something that had at least the appearance of being on a grill at some point, we took off to New Orleans, listening to *NSYNC, and Eve the whole time. 

We're heading into the city, Nate, his mother, his friend, and myself, and along the way we get on a bridge.

Nearly thirty minutes later, I can't help but notice we're still on the bridge. 

Also, a 360º inspection of the outside shows blackness in all directions. 

Nothing but bridge. 

Feeling slightly unnerved, I asked why exactly we were still over water and if, by chance, we had crossed over into Canada yet.

Turns out, we were on the Pontchartrain bridge, the longest bridge in the world, at just over twenty-four miles.

We arrived downtown, parked, and began to make our way to Bourbon Street. 

Or so I thought.

That was until we stopped to look around in the Virgin Megastore.

Not that it really mattered to me, but I couldn't help but think that I should be doing things that I can't do back in Orlando. 

As we continued farther into the Quarter, I seemed to notice that there were many, many gay men about.

"It's just a Saturday night in New Orleans." I thought.

I had been to the city before, and recalled that there was a fairly vast gay culture.

Though...as we got closer, it became evident that this was no typical Saturday night. 

This was Southern Decadence.

So as the straight-acting boy started skipping, and shouting "GIRL!", I cringed at the sight of....well...just about everything disrespectable you could possibly imagine.

Men in terrycloth robes, hanging loosely open to expose their shameless nudity.

Seas of leather-clad bodies, attached in various ways to other leather clad bodies.

And beads.

Oh, the beads.

Everywhere...people jeering, leering, and drinking.

Me...I put my hands in my pockets and tried not to make eye contact with anyone.

Despite my best efforts, I was still bombarded with wandering hands, errant beads whizzing past, and the occasional request to "drop trou".

Eventually, we pressed back toward the river, where we dined at Café du Monde, and then headed back home, full of café au lait and beignets.

And this time, I slept through the bridge.

Yesterday was September 11th.

I sort of had a little internal debate on whether or not I should even mention it, since I did everything I could to avoid any form of media yesterday, as I really didn't want to relive it all.

I read my entry from last year, and was amazed at just how clear I can still recall the whole day.

Not that I would have forgotten it in just a year, but I look at words and phrases that I wrote, and remember having to stop typing because I was shaking so hard, or starting to cry again.

It seems like something so far distant, and almost mythical now...but I know it's not.

The very few seconds of coverage that I did see yesterday made me very emotional, and I still can't watch any of the footage from before the Towers fell.

Just three weeks ago, while in NYC, I went by the site.

It wasn't really something I had intended to do, but my friends Megan and Emily had come to the City to visit me, and we ended up walking about six miles, from Penn Station, down to the WTC site.

Unintended, of course...though I think Megan still believes it was an insidious plot on my part to cripple her, seeing as how she was in heels.

I look back on that picture I took from the Empire State Building in December 2000, and remember always thinking to myself "Wow...the Towers are twice the size of anything else on the horizon."

Now I think..."Wow...who would have ever imagined they wouldn't be there at the same time the next year?"

I had told myself I never wanted to go down to that viewing platform...I didn't need to see it, I knew what it once looked like.

But once you're there, it's very different. I mean...it's not like I didn't know how big the area was...

And somehow, I didn't.

It's just huge...a big hole in the ground. I shivered more than once while looking at it, and had to keep my emotions in check, as I didn't want to cry right there in front of people.

Because I knew that there were about 3000 families that had much more of a right to cry than I did.

Be well...


Your Host and Emcee...dizboy.

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