A Wedding Awaits - For Better or Worse

(Written on 12/12/2008)

It’s my birthday and I’m sitting at Gate D2 waiting for my tin-can to roll in. If the plane goes down, I’ll have lived exactly 26 years – well, probably not to the minute.

My mother didn’t think that was funny. My sister made fun of me for trying to be profound. It would make one local news reporter very happy – front-page, sob-story material.

Airports aren’t so bad; this has to be the most relaxed one I’ve ever been in. All the restaurants serve red beans and rice and Jambalaya, although they’re a sad and expensive reproduction of what you get when you take a taxi 20 minutes south into the Big Easy proper.

Last year on my birthday I think I worked and then went out to a local wine bar with family, friends, and my then-new, brash, Australian housemate (when I still liked her).

After I went to my boxing teacher’s house and watched a match as his girlfriend glared a hole into the front of my head.

This year I took a morning jog down Elysian Fields, which turned into aerobics as I tried to dodge my way around all the dog shit on the ground, I took a $35 taxi ride to the airport (my taxi driver told me that you could take the highway that we were on all the way to Los Angeles), and I paid $12 for a salad which annoyed me more than it should have.

Not bad so far. I’ve come a long way in a year.

More from my taxi driver: If you put salt in your beer during these choking summers that everyone keeps warning me about, you’ll sweat your beer out faster and you won’t be as dehydrated. Plus, it allegedly makes the beer taste better. He wondered what I’ll drink this weekend in Vermont to stay warm. I do too.

The Remanants Cling On

I was sitting in the front seat of my boxing teacher's truck driving back from my boxing lesson last night.

I love learning boxing from him (he's a great teacher and loves to make fun of me) and I love his stories and insights.

I think he's becoming one of my favorite people here.

So we are having yet another discussion about race and he notices that there's been a cop car in front of us for a few miles, going just the right speed to stay a few feet in front of the truck.

"You know, he just might pull me over and ask me what I'm doing with this white girl," says my teacher.

I laughed and thought he was joking.

I should have known better, this is New Orleans, where sarcasm stems from reality more often than anywhere else.

Thanks Ana and Hank

Ana Dane, once again, reminds me of New York's filth, in a blog post discussing tea nonetheless.

When you are frustrated with people, listen to the song, "I'd Love to Knock The Hell Out of You," by Hank Williams Jr.

It will satisfy your urge to knock the hell out of someone without landing you in jail. A beautiful thing.

My Thoughts Exactly

Ways to Show You've Got

Here's the New Orleans Guide to proving you're privileged, tailored to your specific lifestyle:

Young businessman: Buy two cars -- a sensible one to go to work and a flashy piece of sports machinery to park outside of clubs on the weekend.

Middle-aged businessman: Join a cheap gym and take every opportunity to tell the young, impressionable women at the gym what you do, and, by implication, how big your paycheck is.

Old Businessman: Drive around in your convertible with the top down. If it's cold, suck it up -- do this until the temperature drops below 40. Whenever possible, dangle a cigar lazily out of the side of your mouth.

Musician (successful): Mention your label and how supportive it is as much as possible and especially when in conversation with a female. (Keeps the label and your sex-drive happy.) Talk a lot about all the leisure activities you can partake in while the squares work 9-5.

Rapper: Simple. Get a gold grill installed on your front teeth. Same for your car.

College Student: Live in a part of town that's expensive, but to the naked eye, passes as bohemian. Only mention that your father owns the three blocks you live on to "certain" people. Buy sweatshirts with your law school's name on them in five colors, but avoid mentioning your parents are paying your tuition.