I know what it means to leave New Orleans

Just got back from a conference in New Orleans.

It was a strange mix of work, fun, and self-analysis. I guess it is only fitting in a town with NO's reputation. When I first thought about writing it up, I thought about doing some sort of diary entry, spelling out the day and what occurred of note. That almost seems too traditional and mundane to cover it.

Some highlights though:

I caught up with a friend from high school days. How do you overcome two decades of time? Amazingly enough I like to think we might have succeeded. Time will tell on that but I also feel I put to bed some of my lingering issues from then. I also learned just how much goes on that one is oblivious to knowing. We think we know most of the picture. Some times we have the equivalent to a snap shot and a piece of twine. Clues that we think tell a story but turn out to be far short. I also had the best cup of coffee I've ever drank.

My life never stops being surprising or entertaining. I saw a horse cop ride half way in to a karaoke bar and dance on the back of his mount to a hip hop song (yes, I and several of my friends sang at the bar. No, I was not the person on stage at that moment). I got to witness part of the New Orleans Red Dress Run, an excuse to drink and for many participants to cross dress. Just now I remembered that I saw two tranny hookers. At 1:30 on a Saturday afternoon. I had someone explain to me and a friend in much more detail than was called for the details of his heart attack.

I had several of the nicest meals of my life. In case you were wondering, haute cuisine appears to be about reducing food down to its essence flavors. A feast for the senses. Very indulgent. I highly recommend it. But at the same time there is something analytical about it. The experience gets in the way of the nourishment. Comfort may not be a transcendent experience but it sticks to your ribs. Some times we feed our body. Some times we feed our soul. Haute cuisine falls somewhere between those two poles. I'm glad I got to do it.

Actual conversation (slightly paraphrased) that happened to me on the streets while I was taking a photo:
Strange woman who may or may not have been hitting on me: "Can you answer a question for me?"
Me as I realize she is not going to walk into my shot so I can take it: "I can try."
SWWMOMNHBHOM: "Why are guys such douchebags?"
Me: "Testosterone."
SWWMOMNHBHOM: "Really?"
Me: "Yes."
SWWMOMNHBHOM: "That's it?"
Me: "Yes."
SWWMOMNHBHOM: "How do you get them to stop being douche bags?"
Me: "Hurt them."
SWWMOMNHBHOM: "Wha?"
Me: "You've got to hurt them in such a way that makes them realize how much they are hurting other people."
SWWMOMNHBHOM: "Oh. That won't work. He's always going to be a douchebag.....Oh no. Oh no! OH NO! OH NO! Someone is calling me a douchebag!"
At that point she ran down the street to have a half shouted conversation with someone she had seen walking towards us. And of course she was drunk. It was after noon. But her title was long enough.

By the time I left I was nearly crushed by the longing to see Wife again. We had been apart for over a week due to overlapping trips. Suck ass to a painful degree.

I also must say thank you to B.S. for being there.

And to E. and N. for new experiences and hopefully new friendships. And for making me feel welcome with the cool kids. I have no idea if either of you will ever read this. But if you do, I'd just like to say: "Porn."

It seems the most appropriate way to summarize the trip.