Wednesday:
At Ignatius Eatery, eat my first muffaletta of the trip (well, half of one, anyway, which actually is still huge). I give it a gentle squeeze and oil pours out of the sandwich. A love affair is born.

Thursday:
Typically I try to limit myself to 7 drinks a week. Today I had 9. Highlights include 25-cent martinis at Commander's Palace, a cocktail at the rotating Carousel Bar at the Hotel Monteleone (good snack mix although I wish it had more candied peanuts and less sesame whatchamacallits), a Sazerac (eck) at the Roosevelt Hotel as well as a Gin Fizz (sort of a combination of eck and yum).

While drinking a beer and waiting in line outside for the Acme Oyster bar (all lines should allow beer-drinking) an approximately 85-year-old man approaches us with fliers to inquire whether we'd like to partake of the services at the Hustler Club. I say maybe, Steve says "no." "Whattareya, GAY?" the old man snarls, and then refuses to let us keep the fliers as souvenirs, I guess because gay married men don't deserve fliers.

Friday:
My friend Christina and I escape the lousy fresh air by enjoying a Bloody Mary indoors. Another older man stumbles in off the street and demands a drink. "You're drunk," the bartender informs him. "I'm not drunk, asshole!" the old man retorts.

At the rehearsal dinner, Steve unveils our main present to the bride and groom. The surprise element is a success as the father of the groom claims he could have watched an hourlong version. You can read the official bride and groom bio here but the video is a little more entertaining.

I have my first hurricane at Pat O'Briens later on, as I scream at college friends I haven't seen in 10 years. I am slightly repulsed by the sickly sweet red beverage but that doesn't stop me from enjoying several more over the course of the trip.

Saturday:
I get huge hair and major makeup. I am told during the ceremony I did a good job fluffing the bride's train but it was hard to figure out when it was necessary and when to avoid stealing any focus from important people like the priest. My friends are married and it's great.

We parade down the street after the ceremony. When I say "parade" I mean parade. Several streets have been closed and we are lead by a police escort and a brass band. The bride is waving a feathered parasol in the air and people are coming out of the bars to take pictures of us and folks on balconies are tossing beads to us. Strippers come out of the clubs to wave. We are also drinking. At this point I think all other weddings that have come before have been a complete waste of time.

The reception takes place at a wax museum (well, mostly at the open space on the second floor) but there are creepy dusty old wax dioramas to take in if you want. My favorite is Dracula fighting Wolfman.

As if the parade and the wax museum aren't enough, this is the dancingest reception I've ever attended. I actually apparently miss a lot of the best stuff (such as when Liz's brother jumps over the head of her other brother) but just about all the men at the reception love showing off their fast-dancing skills. My favorite part is when the father of the bride fast-danced with the mother of the bride, then was cut in by the two brothers, respectively, and then the groom. There is also a Michael Jackson dancing contest.

While I attend the after party, I don't make the after-after party, where apparently the groom mooned everyone.

Sunday:
Time to go home. In order to prolong the food party I stuff down a roast beef po'boy at the airport and nothing is sexier than someone sadly cramming a po'boy in an airport.