I feel like shit, and I look even worse.
Let's see . . . Saturday Adam and I put up pro-choice posters for NOW (The National Organization for Women--but you knew that). We went into businesses up and down Magazine Street, and I gave them my sweetest smile and asked if we could put the posters up in their windows. (This isn't the wheat-pasting, by the way. It's perfectly legal.) Amazingly, almost everyone said yes, except for All Natural Foods, the hippie grocery on Upper Magazine, where the owner said that he "didn't like to get political." (You own a hippie grocery, you weirdo! There are anarchist signs on your bulletin board!) I think our high rate of success was due to two main factors: 1.) I look like I'm about 12 years old, and 2.) The design of the posters. They were all red, white, and blue, with flags on them, and Adam had come up with the slogans for them, which were: "God bless NOW!" and "So who's pro-life?" They then went on to explain that "NOW supports your American right to choose," and that NOW is pro-life because it's in favor of sex ed and organ donation, which those people who are coming for their conference this weekend do not (the body being a temple and all that).
A couple of interesting things happened while we were putting up our posters. One was that some cracked-out fraternity kid started talking to Adam about how many drugs he was on, how he'd been up all night, how wrong wrong wrong abortion is, etc. That guy was hard to shake. Then we stopped in at the Half Moon to get a beer and sit in the air-conditioning, and the bartender (who was obviously lonely and bored and glad to see us, since the only other person there was the neighborhood alcoholic, who'd obviously opened the place up) gave us free drinks and eventually let us put up posters in the bar. He had originally thought we were a sweet little married couple, on vacation. (Everyone thinks this. I'm not sure why.)
That night we went out to the Saturn Bar with a bunch of people. The Saturn Bar is great--there's just this one old, rockabilly-looking guy who owns and runs the place, and it randomly closes sometimes when he doesn't feel like being there. It's entirely filled with weird crap, like your crazy Aunt Tilly's attic, and of course being a New Orleans bar it's lit with an eerie pink light. The ancient jukebox has records by Patsy Cline, Sinatra, and Ernest Tubbs, and has not been updated one bit in the last forty years.
Sunday we went to this place. It was pretty fun. We made a sandcastle, and some more people initiated strange conversations with Adam. The first was this guy on the ferry over:
Guy: Do I know you from somewhere?
Adam: I live in New Orleans. Is that it?
Guy: No, I'm from Hattiesburg. You ever been in jail?
And the second was at dinner in Bay St. Louis. This really country club-looking lady beat a path over to our table, and said to Adam, "Young man, I like your shirt!" Adam's shirt said, "Afflict the comfortable. Comfort the afflicted."
I got a terrible sunburn, which makes me mad, because I was careful as careful could be. And why is it that when you get sunburned, people always feel the need to tell you about it? "Oh, so that's why I've been experiencing that horrible burning pain all over my back! Thank you, doctor! At least now I won't have to face the agony of not knowing!"
Even worse than the sunburn, though, is that I woke up this morning with a yucky, acne-like rash all over my face. I've never experienced anything like it--went to bed normal, woke up hideous. Could I be allergic to one of the 732 brands of sunscreen I used yesterday? Bleh.
Special bonus:
I took the What Mythological Creature Are you? test by
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