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 My Only Public PoopPosted 02.01.2006 by The Big Wiper (2244)
New Orleans in the mid-'70s was a great place to come out of the closet. Although I really don't like bars much because I don't smoke and am not much of a drinker, I do like to dance. It's good exercise and a fun way to meet people without too much awkward conversation in the beginning. After sweatin' to the oldies and the latest hits on the dance floor, it was easy to retire to a table or balcony overlooking the French Quarter streets and get to know your partner better, hoping to strike up a friendship.
When the disco craze set in around the country in the late '70s, many bars and clubs in the Quarter were already there, having prided themselves on always being on the cutting edge, like Studio 54 in New York. I embraced disco because the dancing was fast-paced and fun; and, yes, back then I liked Donna Summer, The Bee Gees, Earth, Wind, and Fire, and all the rest of them. I had hair over the ears and halfway to my shoulders, the puka shell necklace, and the Keep On Truckin' Frankenstein safety shoes. So one Saturday night I headed to the Quarter just after eleven o'clock, looking for a workout on the dance floor and maybe the beginnings of a friendship. Only I made the mistake of having an all-veggie dinner around nine or so: steamed lima beans, orange juice, and nothing else. Two hours later I was nursing a couple of beers in the disco, putting them down at my table every now and then to dance with someone. Everything was casual that night -- lots of dancing to tunes like Fly, Robin, Fly and Love's Theme -- but nothing developed in the way of friendship leads. I was content to just smile and sweat. At one o'clock I decided to call it a night and head on home. I walked through the Quarter streets back to my car; but about two blocks from where I'd parked, I got a wakeup call from the Colonic Hotel front desk. Turns out the lima beans were very unhappy with their accommodations and wanted to leave early. By the back door, no less. I suppose it was the combination of all that roughage (and nothing else) in my system, the rigorous physical workout I'd just undergone, and the beers. But all anal analogies aside, I was in big, uncomfortable trouble. There I was, walkin' after midnight in a fashion that would have made Patsy Cline proud, without a prayer of getting to a toilet in time. So for the first and only time in my life, I squatted in public under cover of darkness, hoping to high heaven I wouldn't be discovered. The Quarter is full of little alleys tucked away off the main streets. I looked for the first one I could find that also offered some sort of cover -- in this case, a couple of trash cans. It's not that I was Shameful, folks -- my Shamelessness has been well established on this site -- it's that I didn't want to be arrested. These days in the Quarter the legions of homeless who call New Orleans home regularly unload their caca complaints onto the pavement; but back then, there was much less tolerance for polluting public areas -- as it should be. Anyhoo, I scurried along to the trashcans, ripped down my polyester disco pants, balanced myself as best I could, and gave the now dark greenish liqui-limas their freedom. What an Emancipootion Pooclamation! But my relief was soon overshadowed by the realization that I had absolutely no prospects of scoring any wiping material before the sun came up. My choices were to go unwiped (and it was *messy* back there); to take off my briefs and 'wipe' them out of existence; or to pull up my pants and waddle carefully back to the car. Ultimately, I chose to retire the tighty-whities and ring down the curtain on this disco disaster. In conclusion, let me state the obvious: disco is long-dead, and I've stayed away from lima beans ever since. Post new comment
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