More than a decade has passed since those days on the river, with the smell of desperate chance, chickory and ganga in the air. (Jackson Square at its finest.) Though we were fearful and homeless, in those days we still had hope. The world was smeared out before us for our bleary bidding. Our cares were minimal. Our needs, basic at best. Our greatest concerns were who was holding what that night and what wig to wear with those shoes. We were tactless and tacky and we wore our own inane - if not insane - brand of five-and-dime fabulosity on our sleeves with pride.
We were The Young Ones. We were the Lost Boys (and gurrls) of the Big Easy: Livin' it hard, burnin' it up, and tearin' it down. What ever it was. Our stage was The Streets. Our cast, a cacophony of Gutter Punks and Drag Queens; High Rollers and Hookers; Poets, Potheads, Vampires, and Waitresses; Runaways and Royalty. We were addicted to the gutted and glittered glamour that was the tourist's Bourbon Street. We were addicted to the rough trade in the back rooms of Rampart. We were addicted to everything in between, never realizing it was all one and the same.
