First, I woke up. Then I went downstairs, turned on the television and fell asleep. A phone call woke me at 9:55. It was Louie. He had arrived on time to meet with me and audition an actor for his next play in the Cobalt Blue Trilogy.
Unfortunately, the actor had overslept longer than I had and was running late. He eventually arrived and we started the reading.
Did I mention the part calls for an actor in his forties, grizzled and a sea captain - and that this actor is 19 years old with a face like a baby's bottom?
But I'd worked with him before and Louie has seen his work. So I was able to convince Louie that if we rethought the role, the kid could manage it. After all, I had already convinced Louie to rethink one of the major roles sufficiently to change it from a male to a female - with electrifying results.
Well, maybe not electrifying, but really cool anyway.
Now all we need is a black actor. And I don't want Louie to have to rethink that.
Louie left us to drive over to Pensacola Beach where he planned to swim in the chilly Gulf, which scandalized Bobby. The kid hung out with us while I force-fed him Tivo'ed episodes of Ghost Whisperer instead of letting him watch football.
Eventually I left to head into the Marigny for a photo shoot.
The Garden Gnome, who'd gotten her the job, proceeded to loudly brand her a racist. She in turn proceeded to scream that she wasn't a racist, she just hated kids. Then Sharon, who is black, jumped in and said Sloppy Slut had to be a racist if she wouldn't wait on black kids. Lance, the bartender, couldn't hold them down.
Bobby and I decided to do what any self-respecting liberals would do when finding themselves caught in the middle of what promised to be a drunken, racial cat fight.
We cut out.
Besides, Bobby had his mind on burgers and fries. So we went down Saint Claude to Rally's and bought a couple of Big Bufford meals.
Imagine our surprise upon coming back to find that the police had barricaded our neighborhood and there was no way into the Quarter anywhere near our home.
They do that on the night of the Bayou Classic. I don't really know why, but I'm sure it's not racist.
The only thing to do was to find one of NOLA's finest and beg to be allowed in. After producing our drivers' licenses and submitting to body-cavity searches (not as unpleasant as it may sound), the nice little police man let us in.
Once ensconced in our living room and while snarfing down our Buffords and fries, the phones began to ring. It seems many of our friends suddenly wanted to visit us. They must have smelled the charbroil.
After explaining to one and all that there was no way here from there - wherever their "there" happened to be - we were left in peace with our heartburns, a final episode of Ghost Whisperer, and a long night of well-earned sleep.
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