Sonya and I went to New Orleans this weekend to watch the Memphis Roller Derby travel team paste a loss on the New Orleans Rollergirls. It was good stuff.
I had a good time. A highlight: I dropped Sonya and our friend Kelli off at a bar, then went to park. I ended up driving to the other side of the Quarter before I found a parking spot. That was fine. It was nearly midnight, so I was walking with the no-bullshit don't-fuck-with-me stride of a bartender running late for his shift.
So some tourists immediately stop me and ask for directions and restaurant recommendations.
(This happens everywhere. I was asked for directions in London once and you should have seen the person's face when they heard my accent. Apparently I look like a local.)
"Good seafood," they asked, "where can we get good seafood?"
"Now?"
"Yeah, right now."
"It's midnight. I don't fucking know. Acme, maybe?"
And off they went.
So I'm walking down St. Peter, working my cell phone and trying to hook up with some other friends who are in the Quarter and, eventually, my wife. And I'm like, "I've got no smokes! And no beer!"
Into the A&P on Royal. One tallboy, one pack of smokes.
"Do you sell lighters?"
"No sir."
"You got any matches?"
The cashier looked at the manager at the other register.
"Here you go," and he handed me a box of kitchen matches.
It all fell apart from there. Viper got so drunk and turned around she didn't know where her hotel was. My buddy Christie blew out her flip flop and had to shuffle for blocks. Kelli finally abandoned us after we left the Hustler store and caught a cab home. It was ugly, very ugly.
I felt sure I would yack this morning, but Kelli showed us the Dick in a Box video (that I somehow have never seen before) and the laughter made me feel better.
And stopping at Cane's to meet Ann and Mark, my coworkers from back in the day, was an excellent way to end the trip. Sonya even drove most of the way home. That's a good wife.
