Wooster

It has been an action packed day already. I kicked my buddy’s stupid ass in racquetball this morning. Yes, his hiney is stupid because I have been known to call him a butthead. And I like to remind him he is an idiot, implying he has questionable brain cells, if any. Therefore, stupid ass is technically correct. This is what good friends are for, right?

Then I stopped by Einstein’s for a bagel egg sammich. Thereby nullifying the good workout out I had as per the counterpunch from the egg, hammage, and swiss cheese on a six-cheese bagel. At least I didn’t get my usual diet coke too. While scarfing down my post-game meal of goodness, I eyeballed the frosted cookie beckoning me from the pastry case. Each little colored sprinkle swimming upon swirls of white icing was shouting to be liberated, but alas, I refrained.

I went home to shower and basked in the glow of having no meetings scheduled today. Which made it an old Levi’s day with a comfy Colombia button up and my hiking boots. If I get invited to any impromptu camping trips today, I’ll be ready!

I drove into work and Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing came on the radio. I only heard that song about ten times a day while in New Orleans a few weeks ago. It is in the mid sixties today, so my windows were down. Enough time has gone by that I actually turned up the volume and started screaming out my best Steve Perry which is quite frightening actually. Especially at ten in the morning with angry soccer moms in mini vans on both sides of me yelling at their kids to cover their ears and look away!!

As I neared the office, I had to wait for a couple minutes at a long red light. The dude in front of me was brushing his teeth in his car. He either has really really bad teeth and is trying to do some major recovery work or he has the most sparkling teeth in the world as a compulsive brusher. My only question is where he was going to spit out. I kept a close eye on him the whole two minutes before he turned left and I went right. He was brushing the whole time. He must swallow.

I got to work and had a quick meeting with one of the gals. My phone was sitting on the coffee table and she asked if she could check it out as a prospective iPhone buyer. She wanted to play with the texting feature since she wasn’t sure about going from her keys to the push screen. I told her to go ahead. She opened up my texts and the one she pulled up was a text to myself. Yes, I text myself now and then. I am the master of my domain. It is the only way I can remember certain things. Of course, I forgot about this text, so my system has flaws.

This is what my text to myself said:

Kweef ma wooster

My startled female employee said, “What the fuck?”

I saw the text and was laughing my stupid ass off (my friend tells me I’m the idiot and butthead, so I guess I qualify as having a stupid ass as well).

I was at a dive bar on Saturday watching a band. The bathroom was a sty. It had graffiti all over it. Someone wrote ‘Kweef ma wooster' on the ceiling. I thought that loosely means something like ‘make me pussy-fart’, but I wasn’t sure and also I wondered why the hell anyone would write that in the men’s room. So I sent a text to myself to look it up later and totally forgot about it.

I asked my female employee if it is inappropriate to expose her to such language. She said she’d put it in my ‘file.’ I keep wondering when the peeps are gonna sue my stupid ass and take over the shop.

And now I can’t get ‘kweef ma wooster’ out of my head. It is what I want desperately to say in response to anyone talking to me. Despite that implying I might have a vagina. Which I don't. But say it. 'Kweef ma wooster.' Fun, right? So I’m trying to avoid everyone because I’m pretty sure I can’t resist.

Kweef ma wooster, peeps!

We Go Way Back

All I can recall about my half day Kindergarten class was meeting Dave and Chris while we built a castle out of giant wooden blocks. We became fast friends even though I lived on the other side of town from them.

But then we moved. Across town to the same block as Dave and one block away from Chris. This was the summer between second and third grade. I was a happy little squirt. The three of us hung out all the time. We grew up together.

We have already been through a lifetime of events together. Dating (not each other!), graduation, sports, living together, jobs, lay-offs, jail, marriage, broken engagements, divorce, death, kids, moving, heartache, celebration and a hell of a lot of beers.

35 years later and we still stay in close touch despite having very segmented and busy lives. I’m in Colorado, running my own business, married with kids. Dave is single, dating, living in a cool neighborhood in downtown Chicago, and has a great job. Chris has two lovely daughters and has been through a divorce. He lives in the far suburbs of Chicago and has been dating a wonderful gal for the last year. He has worked for the same big company for years.

We try to email and phone enough to be caught up. And we usually end up seeing each other one or two times per year. Amazingly, we spend a few minutes updating on our lives before basically reverting back to our childhood. It all seems so natural to me that I sometimes take it for granted and forget it is rare to know two guys so well for so long.

In honor of my buddy Dave, I have to tell one of my favorite stories about him. Interestingly, I wasn’t even there to witness the episode of my amusement.

Shortly after college, Dave and I went on a rafting trip in Utah. It was a five day trip down the Green River and then the Colorado River once we went through the massive rapids at the confluence. Among many fantastic things on that trip, Dave’s little story still makes me laugh out loud when I think about it too much.

Each night, we camped in tents along the side of the river. One morning, I woke up and noticed Dave was already up and out of the tent. I am not a morning person and was taking my time waking up. Then I heard Dave coming back. He unzipped the tent and stuck his soaking head inside. I thought maybe he took a water bottle bath but then I saw that his entire his body was soaked, from head to toe, including his shoes.

Dave is a very neat person. He dresses really well and has great hair. He takes forever to shower and get ready for a typical day or night out. He’s like a girl getting ready for prom. This is important information for what happened to him.

Dave had taken his toothbrush to the river bank to clean up while soaking in the morning views. This part of the river was deep in a gorge with massive rock walls on both banks. Our campsite was a small sandy area barely big enough to accommodate about eight tents. The river was full of silt, making it a muddy looking beast despite the fast current. Apparently Dave was standing at the edge of the bank brushing away when suddenly the ground gave in and he fell in the river.

Because of the depth of the canyon, there really wasn’t any shallow area. It was just raging river off the bat. Dave went under for a second or two, but somehow managed to keep his toothbrush above water. Despite the sudden and unexpected dunking in the silty fast moving river along steep canyon walls with barely thirty yards of shoreline before there would be nothing but rocks on either side; Dave’s primary concern was to keep his toothbrush dry.

He said he popped up and was whisked down river in the current like the Statue of Liberty holding her toothbrush instead of a torch. Lucky for him, he fell in up river and was able to scramble to the side of the bank before he ran out of shoreline. And indeed, his toothbrush was dry.

Unfortunately, nobody was witness to this joyride of terror. He looked a like a sad wet dog telling the story and all I could imagine was standing there and seeing his head bobbing by while holding his toothbrush high in the air.

This ranks as one of the funniest things I ever saw that I didn’t see. Chris’ music-stopping fall through a patio screen door at a party ranks right up there, but I was full witness to that feat.

Dave visited this weekend. We went skiing Friday and Saturday and spent a night in the mountains. Most of our laughs were at other people instead of each other. There was the creepy eyed guy drinking a pitcher of beer and three entrees by himself. There was Brent the saxophone player that was trying to get lucky with another local. Brent had kind of a Billy Bob Slingblade mumbling laugh after almost everything he said. The object of his desire was Carrie, a fifty year old local although she is originally from England. Dave asked her what brought her to Colorado and I blurted out the Gold Rush before taking a pretty hard punch to the shoulder.

I love that Dave and I are still making new memories. In twenty years, I imagine we will be having beers together reminiscing about the time we insulted the locals on the ski visit of ’09.

I look at Will, my six year old, and wonder if one of his buddies today will still be there for him in 35 years.

Cheers to good friends.

Snot Bubbles and a Note From Mom

My mom is a constant source of entertainment. She lives in Florida, so I don’t get to see her and my dad nearly enough. We talk once a week and then I usually get gems like this via email:

Did you all know:

It is easier to shovel snow if you coat the shovel with WD-40!!

Wii Fit has a great exercise thing for the whole family.

You can call Goog-411 (or 800-Goog-411) which is free & it will give you local businesses' numbers & dial them for you.

Those are my "Mother Knows All" hints for this month! Aren't you glad! Love..........


She sent this to my sister and me yesterday. That is the entire message. I really do need to save all her notes for future laughs and ridicule.

In other news, I am fighting off a cold. Not a big deal, but something funny happened last night.

Backing up a little further, I got a kick out of reading Linda's blog about the time she was interviewing for a job and somehow blew a big snot bubble through her nose while discussing her qualifications. Well, perhaps I shouldn’t have taken such glee in her misery.

I played racquetball last night. It was a little difficult to breathe with a stuffy nose. But even worse, a little snot bubble kept pulsing in and out of my nose throughout our match. Despite blowing my nose and trying to clear out the duct work, it kept coming back.

Racquetball is often not a graceful sport. Wearing unsightly goggles, sweating like crazy and often times awkwardly flailing at a wildly caroming ball taking impossible bounces with ridiculous spins is silly enough. Combine a snot bubble going in and out of your nose throughout and you have prime fare for TV viewing pleasure on ESPN the Ocho.

I wonder if my mom has any advice for snot bubble control.

Baseball Been Berry Berry Good To Me

Redskins, Rockets, Cadets, Grizzlies, Giants, Raiders, Rangers. Those were the names of my baseball teams from 2nd grade through 8th grade. My high school team was the Cardinals, but as a Cubs fan, I have trouble admitting that sometimes. It’s odd I can remember those team names, colors, the positions I played and lots of other details. And yet, I can’t remember what the guy’s name is I met at a small dinner party the other night, nor can I remember what I’m supposed to pick up from the store on the way home tonight (the request was made this morning when I was still groggy – timing is everything).

Spring Training has started for major league baseball. Despite A-Rod and the latest steroids scandal, I am still a Cubs fan and a fan of the sport. Perhaps it is because I started playing at an early age. I have very fond memories of having a catch with my dad. He had a crappy catcher’s mitt that had a Sears label on it. How un-cool is that? Instead of Wilson, Spalding or Rawlings, my pops used a glove pitching a discount department store.

My first real glove was a Wilson signed by Ron Guidry, a pitcher for the NY Yankees. I hated the Yankees, but that was a good glove. Despite owning a hardware store catcher’s mitt, my Dad knew a few things about breaking in a new glove. He taught me how to oil it up, put a ball in the webbing, secure it with rubber bands and put it under my pillow so the weight of my head (fat neck foreshadow?) would keep pressure on it all night.

I sucked donkey balls my first year of organized baseball. The best moment of that year on the Redskins was getting the cool red t-shirt with the number seven on the back. I didn’t know what a force-out was and I couldn’t hit worth a lick in a game. I got exactly zero hits my first year. I don’t even remember hitting the ball to a fielder. I’m pretty sure I either walked, struck out or got hit by the pitch for nearly the entire season. I do remember my last at bat of the season. I somehow made contact and hit a line drive that was snagged by the third baseman. Okay, it was a light bloop but in my mind, I creamed the ball and he made a Hall of Fame play.

Somehow, that one swing gave me hope for the next year. After all, the only thing I really accomplished on the Redskins was learning what the word ‘uncoordinated’ meant. My evil older sister felt it necessary to tell me she asked my parents why I wasn’t a good baseball player. They told her I was uncoordinated. She made sure I knew what it meant.

The next year on the Rockets was better. I actually got some hits, but was still a less than average batter. I did well in the field though and spent time playing just about every position. I made strides during the middle of my Cadets year. I was playing the hot corner (third base) and started to become a good hitter.

Finally, the next year on the Grizzlies was my breakout season. I pitched every other game and played third, short and first in between starts. I made the All Star team and we made it to the city final four before losing to the eventual champions. I’ll never forget that team was called the Dons. Isn’t that a mob boss name? WTF? It was a little bittersweet as I was the losing pitcher in our last game. But geez, if we would have won, would I have gotten whacked?

I made the All Star team two of the next three years before quitting Little League to focus on high school sports. I took a lot of pride about overcoming that ‘uncoordinated’ remark from back in 2nd grade. And clearly, I remember it in detail.

Perhaps the best moment of that first year wasn’t my bright red number seven Redskins shirt. Maybe it was the reality that I wasn’t very good and someone had the guts to tell me. In turn, it motivated me to prove them all wrong. I might have resented my sister, and even my parents, a little bit at the time. But at some point, I realized they shouldn’t be blamed for the truth. Okay, maybe my sister could have used a lesson in tact, but that is what older siblings do.

Besides baseball, I played basketball and football in high school. I learned how to maximize my limited skills by being coachable and a team player. I appreciated the fundamentals and worked hard. I had respect for my teammates, competitors, coaches and sportsmanship. I had some great success in all three sports. But I was never bigger than the game. It gave me more than I could have ever known.

I am a bit flustered with how schools and sports leagues coddle kids today. I am aware of sports days where everyone wins and everybody gets a ribbon. There are no losers. I have seen this phenomenon in the classroom with projects. I have seen it in all kinds of scenarios where the primary concern is that some kid doesn’t feel left out or perceived as not as good as all the other kids. I get that concept from a daily interaction and life point of view. But isn’t the nature of some of these activities, tests, sports, games and things to have the spirit of competition?

Is some kid who sucks at baseball going to be embarrassed later in life because nobody ever told him he has spinach in his teeth? Yes, I learned a tough lesson, but if I didn’t know about it, I wouldn’t have been able to overcome it.

Let’s love our kids unconditionally. But let’s not be afraid to let them learn about life without giving them a blue ribbon for having a pulse.

Monkey Suit

I had to fly to a dusty little Midwest town with a co-worker for a new business pitch yesterday. This would be a great account to win, so please keep your fingers crossed and send good karma. The potential new client reeks of a corporate atmosphere, so I had to break out the wedding duds. Yes, I had to wear this:



Which sucks cuz I’m most comfortable dressing like this:



Although I tend to go to work dressed somewhere in the middle. Jeans, nice shirt and bidness swagger. Ha.

I was a little nervous my suit wouldn’t fit and that I would forget how to do a tie. No problem on either. Although I had an issue with my shirt. Apparently my neck has gotten fat. I couldn’t get the top button buttoned! I had to switch shirts. And now I’ll have to go to neck yoga or something. Is there a Neck Weight Watchers program? Can I get a neck girdle? Oh, or maybe I need to stick my head in one of those old vibrating machines with that canvas loopy thing. Look at what it did for this gal! Her neck looks tight!



Right outside of the airport, we drove past this place.



I’m no marketer, but since when does Pizza Hut think they can get away with calling themselves an Italian Bistro? Wait, I am a marketer. I guess we’ll see if plain old common sense outweighs the likely hundreds of thousands of dollars Pizza Hell spent researching and developing this concept. My prediction – it won’t work.

We had a few hours to kill before our meeting. We went to this place:



We went over our one hour presentation again and hung out watching old ladies in fancy colorful hats. You gotta love the 2pm lunch crowd. We decided that if we win this business, this guy will be our new mascot. Not that we had an old mascot.



We went to the meeting and kicked butt. I don’t think anyone noticed the tiny spot of ketchup on my crispy white shirt. We gauge ourselves by saying if we could have done anything over again, what would we have done? The answer this time was nothing. If we don’t get this business, it will be because some other shop knocked their socks off even further than we did. And that is saying a lot since I’m good at yard sales when skiing.

Win or lose, we wanted to celebrate. We went to Old Town and admired their brick streets (how appropriate since we were in Kansas) that led us to a pub.



I lost the choker and enjoyed a beer.



We did a shot at the airport. Out and back in one day. Now we wait. While I lift heavy things with nothing but my neck.

Harvey Danger Gives Me Gas

Check it out. As you can see, at 10:11pm last night, I had the defrost on at a balmy 76 degrees on both sides of the truck while Harvey Danger was bellowing Flagpole Sitta and I had a whopping ZERO miles to go before supposedly running out of gas!



I never really wanted to test out the accuracy of those range gauges. I can clearly see how many miles I have until I need a fill-up. And for more incentive to use common sense and get gas; there is a bright yellow light that glares in my face when I’m down to about 25 miles left in the tank.

I had 14 miles on the range gauge when I started heading home last night. I estimated I was about ten miles away. There is a gas station four blocks from my house. No problem, right?

I was cruising down I-70 jamming to Flagpole Sitta, keeping an eye on the gauge. I wasn’t sure, but it seemed like the miles left were going down faster than the actual miles I was covering. The glaring yellow light glowed a little brighter.

I was about three miles from home with five miles left on the gauge. I was slightly nervous. I thought of my wife who never lets the tank get less than a quarter full. Once it hits that mark, she gets panicky and starts white-knuckling the steering wheel while mumbling soft curses. I gripped the wheel a little tighter and cursed the damn yellow light and plummeting range gauge.

Cars in front of me started braking. Shit. Construction!! Three lanes were going down to one. It was 10:09pm and traffic was light, so I didn’t think it would be a problem. I cursed the people who authorized the go-ahead to make our roads safer.

Suddenly, Harvey Danger’s voice got really quiet. I could barely hear him. I adjusted the knobs on el radio to no avail. The buttons on the steering wheel didn’t change anything either. Could my radio be affected by running out of gas? Isn’t that a battery thing? How the hell do cars work anyway? And how the hell can airplanes get off the ground?

My gauge had gone down to four miles left as the radio softened and the lanes merged to one. I was looking at the gauge every tenth of a mile at least. All the sudden it skipped from four to two! What the fuck!!!? What happened to three? Three is a good, legitimate number!! Babe Ruth wore number three! Three main points are best to make in a presentation. Three bar stools always look better than four. Three's Company was a great show about misunderstandings. There are three bees in the fricking bonnet! What the hell happened to three miles to go!

It was snowing outside. My nervousness must have started fogging up the windshield. Flagpole Sitta was fading fast. I turned on the defrost. There was an exit about a hundred yards ahead but I didn’t know of a gas station there. I knew there was one a half mile ahead on Colorado Blvd. The gauge was on two. Shit, make that one! It felt wrong to drive by an exit ramp, but I had to go for what I knew. Plus, there was this deep deranged desire to push the envelope and see if I could make it.

I leaned forward in my seat, willing the truck to keep moving. I yelled at Harvey to sing louder as I approached the exit for Colorado Blvd. The gauge hit zero. According to Toyota, I had nothing left. I had to go up hill on the ramp and hoped if I ran out of gas it would be once I hit the crest.

The yellow light blinked. Or maybe that was me. I don’t remember. I made it to the top of the hill and saw the glorious neon lights of the Diamond Shamrock about 100 yards ahead. I laughed a cunning laugh of victory at Harvey Danger, the yellow light and the zero on my range gauge.

I pulled into the station with gas, or fumes, still in the tank. I filled her up. My tank holds twenty gallons. What was I worried about? I had 0.018th of a gallon left.

Buddha Voodoo

How does that saying go? I’m busier than a one legged man in an ass-kicking contest? Yah, that. I need a break. Plus, I’ve been distracted all day by this:



There is a voodoo doll next to a Buddha next to bamboo on my desk. Should I be concerned? I happened to be emailing a friend when I finally realized this situation, so I asked her what she thought. Lucky for me she responded fairly quickly and told me to put the voodoo guy in the trash corner and the Buddha in the money corner. She theorized that the rules of feng shui would apply. And that if bad things happened to try switching corners. Then she launched into something about not liking sushi. I neglected to mention the bamboo, so I’m not sure if everything she said is null and void. Except I assume she still hates sushi regardless of my bamboo.

I speculated about various ramifications. I work with seven women and one guy. Will there be a tsunami of PMS bombarding the office? According to the media, the sky is already falling, so I’m not worried about anything worse than that happening. Wait, seven co-workers PMSing at once would definitely be worse than the sky falling. Chicken Little, the one legged man and I would have to throw in the towel and go drinking.

My bamboo needs some water and there is a shoot that is finally kicking it. I’m going to give it a little TLC and rub the Buddha belly. I’ll also use the white pin on the voodoo doll and see if good karma abounds.

Yah, that’s right, the voodoo doll came with a black pin for evil and a white pin for good luck. I’m no expert, but I’m not sure there really is a white pin good luck aspect to voodoo. Luckily I paid homage to a couple voodoo princess graves in the St. Louis Cemetery outside of the French Quarter. I’m expecting great things despite my ignorance of the three Xs and chicken claws.

So, do I need to make any rearrangements on my desk, sing some chants, or perform some kind of ceremony? Is this anything like introducing new roommates in college? Can’t we all just get along?

By the way, one of my favorite childhood memories is of having the following exchange with my dad. We would do it like ten times in a row until my mom and sister started throwing stuff at us. It is from a song or movie, I can’t remember:

Dad: You remind me of man.
Me: What man?
Dad: The man with the power.
Me: What power?
Dad: The power of voodoo.
Me: Who do?
Dad: You do.
Me: Do what?
Dad: Remind me of a man.
Me: What man.

And so on…

Frivolous

Last week was great. We had a few big client meetings that went really well. And then three new projects came out of nowhere and were all major fire drills. You know the kind. Due yesterday. Everyone is running around in a slight panic. And you wonder if it is really worth it. But all three worked out great. My peeps and I worked our respective assess off, the clients were happy, and we made some good cake.

One of those projects was for a client that is having us come out to pitch for their overall business. This takes place on Thursday and it would be a big score. Besides that pitch, I got a call earlier in the week from a potential new client referred by a friend. We set up that meeting for this past Friday at 4p.

We all worked day and night last week on those unexpected projects in addition to the big client meetings. And we have been working hard on the big pitch for next week. The Friday 4p meeting was more of a meet and greet, so I didn’t do much to get ready for it. It was such an intense, yet fun week and Friday would be more of the same. So I went golfing in the morning. What the hell – how many places can you golf and ski in the same day if you want? I only did nine holes so I could go back in the office for the afternoon and then hit the new biz meeting.

Golf is a fucked up game. I can par one hole and get a ten on the next. I like to carry my bag, drink beer, enjoy the outdoors and socialize. I don’t really care how well or poorly I play. I think perhaps the best thing about golf is Robin Williams stand-up routine on the origin of the game. If you pee in your pants when you laugh hard, wear a diaper and go listen to his schtick.

Speaking of beer, I had a Red Stripe today and it was damn good. And then later, I had a Bud Light because it was the only beer left in my fridge from the last to-do we had. I usually buy some shitty beer along with the good stuff because there are inevitably some people that still drink crappy water with a hint of beer flavor. Bud Light sucks.

But I had that Bud Light with some awesome Thai food. I got take-out from Tommy’s, the best in Denver. Dinner was very entertaining. My boys like to a play a game where I ask them to choose between me and something disgusting. They always choose the disgusting stuff. I have written about this before. Tonight was particularly entertaining. We were joking about calling each other pretty instead of handsome. So I asked the boys questions like, “What is prettier? Daddy or the inside of Drew’s nose?” And, “What is prettier? Daddy or the dirty water in the toilet?” And, “What is prettier? Daddy or Drew and Will’s spit-up all mixed together and served in a bowl with lots of vegetables?”

My wife left the table at this point. She has no respect for quality dinner table banter. Just then I got a text from a friend. She informed me she was playing Candyland. That was quality information that I brought on myself with my tendency to alert her of my frivolous activities. Which reminds me of one of my co-workers that didn’t respect my effort to spell frivolous while sending her a text. She wanted to know if she should pay United Airlines $39 extra to get me an aisle seat for a business trip. I sent a text saying I thought it was frivolous. She snoop dogged me back with “Frivolous fo’ shizzle dawg. You got street cred to represent fo’ sho’. Peace out be-yotch.” My employees totally respect me.

Perhaps the craziest thing that happened this week is that I had a very naughty dream about another blogger. It was not someone I read or communicate with regularly, nor do I know her in real life. I do check her blog once a week or so, but I hadn’t that evening. You know how sometimes you dream about the last thing you were doing or thinking about? Well, that wasn’t it. She somehow just appeared in my dream and I have to tell you; it was HOT.

Don’t ask, cuz I’m not saying who it was. Just assume it was you, unless that grosses you out in which case it wasn’t you.

Has anyone else ever dreamed about a blogger they have never met?

Oh yah, we got that business from the meeting on Friday at 4p. I just have to send over the agreement on Monday. It was a damn good week. I’m happy to report good economic news for a change of pace. I should golf every Friday morning.

Have a Red Stripe and a virtual toast with me. I want to share this good karma. If your business prospects don’t improve, maybe you’ll have a dirty dream about a blogger. Cheers!

Holy Jacques-imo

This man is a nut.



He owns Jacque’s-imos in New Orleans. It is a long cab ride from the Quarter.



Locals and out-of-towners flock there with lines out the door every night. The food is classic creole and yuuuuummmmmmy! We were told part of the draw is Jacque. This is true, although no matter how interesting he is, the restaurant still has to be good. Thumbs up on all counts.

A local couple, friends of one my buddies, joined the five of us at Jacque’s-imos on Friday night. We had pre-dinner beers a couple doors down at the Maple Leaf, which also was our post dinner destination for live music. We finally got seated around 9pm at a table nestled in a corner by the front bar. There were tons of people still waiting for tables making the place jam packed. We literally had to move the entire table and half of us had to get up just for one person to be able to get out to hit the head. And the loo itself was an adventure. One of them was through the kitchen in the corner by shelves of dry goods.

Our meal was fabulous. It started with cornbread muffins that melted in your mouth. I had three and only stopped because we went through about twenty at the table already. I got the blackened redfish with mashed potatoes and some sort of corn concoction. Again, there was melting in the mouth. We imbibed in large quantities of Abita Ambers and great conversation.

As we were lingering near the end of the fantastic meal, Jacque strolled over. He was wearing his white chef coat, Bermuda shorts, and sandals. He looked like he stuck his finger in a socket as his hair and beard were unruly and Einstienian. He was holding a glass that looked like one of those yard long ones you find at brew houses. His was filled with a cosmo. Yes, I believe he had a buzz going on.

Jacque chatted it up with us and then yelled at our waiter to bring us dessert. Crème brulee and strawberry shortcake on the house. Sweet! As he was slurring something to us, he got distracted by a tall drink of water at the bar. There were six gorgeous women waiting for a table. He strolled over to a blonde with flowing hair and small-talked for a bit.

He came back to us and I asked why the hell he was being so rude by not introducing the women to us. So he grabbed the blonde and brought her over. The five of us out of town Abita induced horn dogs bombarded her with our collective wit and charm. Turns out she and her friends were from Texas. So we instantly chose to ignore their individual names and just called all six of them Texas.

We were ready to head to the Maple Leaf while Texas, Texas, Texas, Texas, Texas and Texas were finally getting seated. We told them we’d get them on the VIP list at the Maple Leaf (there is no such thing and if there were, we couldn’t get them on it) and bid them adieu.

We thanked Jacque on the way out and meandered down about three doors. Suddenly Jacque came flying out of his restaurant and yelled at us to come back. Three of our gang already were in the Maple Leaf, but the last four of us turned around. Jacque said he wanted us to do shots with him. Twist our arms silly man.

We walked back in and Jacque yelled to the barkeep to set up five shots. He then motioned for us to follow him. He took us back to the kitchen and talked about everything going on back there. I told him I already knew all this because I practically peed in there. He proceeded to tell us how the building used to be someone’s home. They would serve people in front and live in the back. So the bathroom was right off the original kitchen, like it still is today. Then he took us to the back of the restaurant where all the other diners were and pretty much marveled in his own greatness.

We walked back to the front bar and did our shots of Patron together. No limes or salt – those are for pussies. After a collective “Bleaaaaaaahhhh, that was good,” we finally got over to the Maple Leaf.

This was a mere two hours of our New Orleans debauchery, but it was quite memorable. I highly recommend dinner at Jacque’s-imos anytime anyone is in NOLA.

No Pimping Needed For These Rides

I can’t decide which of these two cars is better.







Both of these beauties were part of the spectacle of New Orleans. The fruit pickup truck provided our mantra for the rest of the weekend. The driver had a PA system. Think Blue Brothers announcing their gig or old school politicians out hustling for votes.

We heard the fruit truck before we saw it. I wish I could put an audio file up to properly describe the scene. I’ll do my best to recreate it in words. The driver was using the PA system to shout out what goods he had for sale as he slowly cruised through the residential parts of the French Quarter. He had a really low voice that he would drone on about what he had in a long extendo-word fashion.

The first thing we heard from him was, “Ahhh got caaaaaaaaaaab-bage!” That translates to ‘I have cabbage.’ We heard him from a couple blocks away before we ever even saw him.

Some of his other lines were:

“Ahhhhhhhhhh got waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaater-MELLON!”

“Ahhhhhhhhhh got toooooooooooooooh-may-toes!”

“Ahhhhhhhhh got pooooooooooooooooh-tay-toes!”

If anyone was within a three block radius of the fruit truck, they knew cabbage was nearby. So we spent the rest of the weekend announcing to each other the various things we had. Like when I bought a round, I came back in a low loud song with “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh got beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-year!”

Or in the morning with, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh got a heaaaaaaaaaad-ACHE!”

We took a long bike ride one day and were bellowing throughout the Garden District:

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh got jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaans on this biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike ride!”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh got a buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuug in my mouth!”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh got a fuuuuuuuuulllllll blaaaaad-DER!”

Five middle aged idiots on bikes screaming these things out all afternoon and surprisingly nobody shot at us.

As for the hearse, this was a piece of art. It was late when I walked by and without a real camera; it was difficult to get a good shot. The characters on the roof were all superheroes. And then the hood was covered with a variety of little characters. Watch faces alternated with metal studs in one row along the sides, while bottle caps made for another row. Beads hung from below the door. There was a lot going on here. And then the core message was about pro-life. Ironic for a hearse, eh?

Alrighty, I gotta go. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh got some meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet-ings!