NIGHTMARE ON BOURBON STREET

So I haven't written for a while -- writers write, as the old saying goes, but journalists desperately try to put the whole nasty business off.

I've actually been busy, covering a trade show in New Orleans. And if there's one thing that makes me less homesick for my daily newspaper days, it's having to start one up from scratch and run it for three days. I even had to come up with a crossword puzzle (and finding clues for "bundle strapper" is no walk in the park, believe me).

But as always, I digress. It's 1 a.m. one night in New Orleans, and I'm walking down Bourbon Street after a late dinner with some coworkers, enjoying the view of shirtless guys sitting in pools of their own essence and the ambulances cruising up and down the cross streets, in search of people on which to perform drive-by stomach-pumpings. Y'know, ambience 'n stuff.

Anyway, I look up and notice this woman making a beeline for me. She looks kind of familiar, but I don't really remember her. But boy, did she remember me. She grabs me by both lapels of my jacket and shouts, "I KNOW YOU!" Before I could escape, she continued, "YOU WORK FOR... FOR..." and then mentioned the name of a rival publication. As I was stammering something about her being close, I realized that I interviewed her for about five minutes about five years ago -- more than enough to warrant a tearful Bourbon Street reunion. In the meantime, she's yelling, "YOU NEED TO GET THAT JACKET AND F-ING TIE OFF AND SMILE, BECAUSE YOU'RE ON F-ING BOURBON STREET!" The whole time, she's shaking me violently and I'm starting to wonder how I'm going to gracefully escape. Fortunately, just then her boyfriend, or spouse, or whatever, picked her up like a cord of wood and carried her off in the direction of more wholesome French Quarter fun.

So that was New Orleans.