Mmmm, Rob

If I were a certain type of guy, a guy who self-identified as a member of a particular group, referred to internally as bears, cubs, wolves, otters and other furry animal types, I'd say, "Woof!" or use some such turn of phrase. I am not, however, since, as my friends well know, I am the type of guy who, on most days, and when the thought occurs to me, becomes extremely uncomfortable at any kind of self-identification. While I'm neither overly idiosyncratic, nor some sort of iconoclast, I do entertain an extreme misanthropy that strongly encourages me to remove myself from groupish situations, and performing groupish behavior (i.e. do whatever the fuck everyone else is doing).

But this is all neither here nor there.

Rob is a total hottie who I first met way back at the beginning of summer ('06) one night out on Bourbon Street. He lives in Colorado now, but he grew up on the "Best Bank." (So, if you know what THAT means, then you KNOW what that means). He came back to New Orleans over the holidays, and we got drunk again on Bourbon Street. I'm looking forward to the next time we get to hang out.

We were partying with his brother at Bourbon Street Blues Company, listening to a shitty cover band that played lots of obscure 80s metal (loving it!) Shot girls kept coming over to our group (little did they know!) and even though Rob (hot!) and I (drunk!) were not "interested," these pushy broads were impossible to refuse (I love strong women (i.e. total bitches!)!) Of course, the shots were crap, and were way overpriced, but it WAS priceless to see the big guy get manhandled by this little chick wearing hotpants and a tube top (okay her tits WERE really, really big). I got so drunk I couldn't remember why the hell we were hanging out on the wrong side of the lavender line (i.e. St. Anne Street)....