Babbles of a Lover and a Fighter

So, I’m getting into the swing of things here in New Orleans.  The job is going relatively smoothly, I’m working out, I’ve reconnected with old friends, and I’m even finding time to let loose and hit a couple of parties here and there, the most recent being an America-themed party.

My friend, Kelly, has met a lot of people from outside the US through her Albanian roommate, Ina.  They wanted to throw a party where all of her American friends dressed as American icons and all of her foreign friends dressed as their version of Americans.  Needless to say, it was an interesting night.

Unfortunately, I left my camera at home, and aside from this south-of-sober-ly taken picture (thank you, Kelly), you will have to rely on my words to paint a picture of the evening.

From left to right we have Mr. Rogers (rockin’ the Converse instead of the traditional Keds), Johnny Appleseed (yes, that’s a Swiffer handle and yes, there are actual apples in my bandana sack), the Statue of Liberty (with her trusty torch and dry-erase-marker-high inducing crown), and Honest Abe (felt beard and all).

We walked into the house and were greeted by Marilyn Monroe, an excellent Sarah Palin (who was actually from Alaska), a couple of cowboys, and (of course) a good number of people who seemed to not get the America Party memo.  After awhile, more and more people showed up, and eventually, English wasn’t the dominant language spoken in the house.  French and Spanish dialogue floated around, and it was awesome.  The fluidity of the words kind of made speaking English sound like somebody chopping into a tree.

I saw a super gangster-looking guy saunter up.  He had the shades, the sideways cap, the basketball shorts and shoes, the oversize Nike shirt, and a bit of stubble befitting a respectable rapper (Eminem excluded…he rocks the clean shave).  Turns out he was French.  According to Kelly, he always wears vests or nicely fitted shirts, so she didn’t even recognize him when he came through the door.  He asked why I had a pot on my head, and the most amazing conversation was born.  He learned about our crew and who we were, and we learned that apparently they don’t call French horns French horns in France (whoda thunk?).

The rest of the night was filled with dancing and random French guys playing beats on the pot on my head and asking who I was.  I guess there’s nothing like a pot on your head to strike up a conversation haha

It was a really fun night, and thanks to Kelly and her roommates, I think we all crammed a little more knowledge into our heads.