Since I’ve been back in the US, I’ve been traveling with my friend Jayson and his sideshow gig, Ming Donkey’s One Man Band. Spent Saturday and Sunday in New Orleans, that fantastic hobo city of pirates and saints. Everyone has a story there, and all the stories are the same: “hopped a train, had a plan, landed here (that wasn’t the plan)”
I’ve loved this city forever, spent my life escaping three hours south, along the world’s most crooked straight line. Nothing like chasing tattooed clowns. Anyhow, the story starts here:
Donk was playing a farewell party at Saturn Bar, a classy little dive on St. Claude. Our friend John is leaving for Afghanistan. He’s already been dispatched twice to Iraq, and he has a lifelong fear of cannolis, which it’s better not to get into. But his girlfriend, Tami, brought a whole table of cannolis, muffalettas and mac & cheese from the Italian restaurant her family owns. So I ate a cannoli and washed it down with whiskey. This plan could have backfired. Luckily, it didn’t.
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