~Thursday~ Joe and I had breakfast at the poolside restaurant and bar. Joe had granola cereal and orange juice and I had a bagel with a side order of sausage. I thought I ordered patties, but when links arrived, I ate them like the trooper I am. Of course, we both had coffee.
Yesterday was Joe’s and my friend Erin’s birthday, and on her Facebook wall, we posted this picture of the carrot cake that’s in the dessert case here at the Island House poolside restaurant:
We went for what turned out to be a two-hour walk, working our way over toward Mallory Square and then around and back toward the center of town. I liked the name of this boat that we walked by:
We walked through a very picturesque neighborhood in which I snapped a couple or pictures:
I liked this part of its yard:
We passed by a mourning dove sitting and cooing on a sign, and just as I was about to snap a picture of it, it flew away. Joe and I got silly about birds and bird noises, and about trying to get them to talk, but then saying maybe the one couldn’t talk, because he was in the Pigeon Protection Program. You probably had to be there.
We checked the GPS on Joe’s phone and got walking directions to the Hemingway House, which wasn’t at all far away:
As you might know—or not, depending on whether you’ve heard about the “Hemingway cats“—this cafe was next door to the place:
While we were down on Duval street, we stopped at Quiznos, where we bought sandwiches big enough to have for both lunch and dinner tonight today, and then headed back to The Island Hosue.
We, of course, attended Happy Hour, where here at The Island House works like this:
I’m just not sure how one comes to the conclusion that wearing only a black jockstrap and a huge knee brace contraption to Happy Hour is a good idea. Far be it from me to make a fashion judgment.
Later in the evening, we went to Saloon 1, which is a “back bar” of 801 Bourbon Street Bar, and where an iPad was used by the bartender to control the music in the place.
Let’s just say it’s the kind of place where the bartender had on just some jockey underwear, which rose (or sunk?) below his pubes in the front, and the waistband in the back was pulled down to where his ass and legs meet. Yes, you’re picturing that correctly. A big, hairy full moon.
We stopped for pizza on the way home, and because The Upper Crust was closed, we went to a nearby place called Mr. Z’s, where we waited 30 minutes for my Stromboli to cook. The guy who took our order there was totally high, and before it was all said and done, I wanted to say to him, “Are you trying to get me to not give you my business?” It went down like this:
I had my credit card in my hand and after I noted the menu board stating that the small Stromboli feeds two and it costs $10, the large feeds 4 and costs $20, and they take 25 minutes to cook, I said, “I’ll have the small Stromboli, please.”
“That takes 30 minutes,” he said.
“That’s fine,” i said.
Then he said, “We only take cash.”
“Okay,” I said.
Just put the damn order in already Cheech, or are you Chong?
Joe had ordered a pizza, which was ready before my Stromboli, and he ate the hell out of it starting there and during our walk home. I ended up having two slices of his pizza, and we put my Stromboli in the fridge to have for lunch tomorrow.