This’ll probably be my last post for a few days; goin’ out of town again, though this time for a much happier reason than last time. (Incidentally, my father seems to be doing much better–we actually got to talk to him on the phone last night for the first time in weeks, and he sounded in good spirits. I can’t even tell you happy that makes me.)
Tomorrow afternoon, I’m flying to Tampa so I can drive back up here with my good buddy Jay, the brilliant eye behind Off-Color Photography. He and Michelle and their two kidlets are moving from hurricane-battered Florida up here to gorgeous (and occasionally snow-battered) New England. I didn’t want Jay to have drive all that way by himself, so I volunteered to tag along with him. That was before I found out his truck only has AM/FM radio, of course, but I guess it’s too late to back out now…
Anyway, as a parting shot, I’m going to leave a quick memory of New Orleans as requested by Amy as part of her relief-blogging efforts:
1998: Standing outside Fat Tuesday on Bourbon Street. Amy and I have just officially put some stupid fight behind us and are each drinking the kind of lame frou-frou slushee drinks you typically get from Fat Tuesday, the kind with the name that sounds like it’ll knock you on your ass but only knocks a chunk out of your available cash instead. It’s March, but not Mardi Gras; regardless, Bourbon Street’s still pretty slam-packed with drunken, sweaty flesh.
As Amy and I talk (or yell, more like, so as to be heard), a scuffle breaks out next to us between two guys who clearly have far too much emotional investment in the Greek letters on their T-shirts. First guy shoves second guy; second guy swings and his fist connects solidly with first guy’s chin. First guy backs up a couple of steps (right toward where Amy and I are standing)…and then falls straight backward onto the concrete, eyes still open in surprise, beer spilled all over the ground. I mean he falls straight backward, not crumples to the ground, not kind of sits down–falls back and lands flat on his inebriated back.
This being New Orleans, of course, no one rushes to his aid; this sort of thing happens several times a night all through the French Quarter.
Amy and I, naturally, resume our conversation.
Maybe I’ll have another Big Easy memory to share with you next week; maybe I’ll tell you about playing bodyguard to my friend Sandy at Tipitina’s.
See you all next week!