January 2000.

I was walking along a side-street off of Bourbon in the French Quarter. (Rue Anne, I think it was called.) A guy came up to me and friends and introduced himself as Pierre Pressure. He claimed to be a gypsy orphan, and he handed me a piece of origami paper with gold foil. On it was written the address and time that he was doing some performance art onstage at an open mic night. To rouse our interest, he stuck a long blade up his nose far further than it should have been able to go. His ugly girlfriend stood up next to him. She'd been crouching. "Did you notice that I just pulled my pants down and peed on the sidewalk next to you?" No, I hadn't. There was a puddle.

I wanted to go see them, but my compatriots were afeared of mischeif in the poorer neighborhood where the local tourism authorities had warned them not to venture. So much for adventure.

I love New Orleans.
12:37 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm