Stuff I used to do before, stuff I thought I'd never do again...
I met Spike Lee at a meet and greet thingie last week. He was as embarrassed as I was. I know because I was a ridiculous blabbering idiot and was blushing so hard I made him blush.
So not to be undone, my husband snagged me into another promotional signing thing for the cast of Treme' this morning, in the French Quarter.
A very long line, but c'mon, a cool front in May?
With all the sadness going on, with every reason to put the blankets on the windows and stay in bed, I got dressed and went with him anyhow.
New Orleans smells like my Grandma's kitchen. (The clean cool breeze and the smell of roux will do it for me every time.) And I couldn't help it. I get a little restless in lines, so yep, I was a bad girl.
I tapped hubby on the shoulder and pointed to the Irish bar...
"You're going to drink at this hour?"
"I am going to sit and if I happen to think they might make a decent bloody mary and one appears before me?"
Heaven, I tell ya, Pure Heaven.
The doors open, Eric Lindell on the Juke, a perfect Bloody Mary with celery and my beloved bean--I was like Whoopi Goldberg in Sister Act, jammin' at the bar. And it's just lovely, yanno. Stacks of books were next to me, just for the taking.
I love New Orleans.
The bartender told me I looked familiar. I replied I had no idea why, because I've been locked up for twenty years.
He didn't ask, and I didn't explain. Nobody gave a damn and I like it that way.
So I had two bloody mary's--without my morning prevacid, and hey--it was noon. ish.
The husband came to retrieve me and I got the go-cup New Orleans is infamous for, and we decided to pick up sandwiches for the family before we headed back to dismal daily dreaded...life.
Now, I ask you, where else can you get a 16 inch sandwich, dressed (that would mean with lettuce, tomatoes and pickles) and the ham would have been stacked, but they flat iron the French bread, melting the swiss perfectly too--and I'm talking FRENCH bread, not that spongy crap that Subway tries to call French, AND, AND???
A Big Shot root beer, a native brand of New Orleans, 24 fluid oz.
And that's five bucks.
I am grinnin' in spite of the rebellious ulcer grief, 'cause the guy asked me, while I was observing a hand-written sign over a cooler that proclaimed "DAMNED COLD BEER", and he asked me if I wanted a Hubig pie with that!
No thank you. I be big enough.
(A Hubig pie is another N'awlins thing--a deep fried handfulla pie, in just about any flavor you want.)
But my point is, there's still a lot to cry about, a lot to worry about, but today was a bit of a home-coming for me.
I love New Orleans and I wanna go home and stay home.
Go do something you love, good people.
It's the best drug in the world.
*love and peace*
and yeah, serenity! *smile*
Be good to yourselves, and each other. I love you guys, and I need a nap.
I just ate eight inches of a po boy.