Oh, Hi . . . Oh

I know, I know. It's been like forever since I wrote a proper post. But, really, truthfully, the delay is not my fault. Nor is it the fault of my new friend, The Bottomless Daiqueri Girl. The true culprit here is Ohio. That's right, I said it. The entire state of Ohio. J'accuse.

As you may or may not know, Liz and I spent the Holidays in Chicago. Delightful as always. Since we brought the dogs, we drove. On the way there, we took our regular route: West through Virginia, West Virginia, and Kentucky; then North through Indiana. On the way back, however, both Mapquest and Google Maps had us cutting a diagonal through Ohio.

Not ones to quibble with gigantic electronic minds, we decided to follow directions even though they involved diverging from the comfy confines of the Interstate to brave the unexplored reaches of various State Routes. Ohio State Routes, to be precise.

It seemed as if we would never escape Ohio. Now, granted I was suffering from a wicked cold at the time, I could of sworn we were driving in circles, stuck behind a van going 40 on a two-lane country highway. I thanked my lucky stars once we finally crossed into the relative civilization of West Virginia.

Despite the perceived circuitousness, however, we ended up making it back to Durham an hour earlier than our previous record time. I had the sneaking suspicion, though, that Ohio would once again rear its ugly head to exact its revenge.

Who would of guessed it would happen in New Orleans.

After touching down for a couple days, we were off again to the Big Easy, where Liz had an Economists Convention to attend. Only after we arrived did we realize that our visit coincided with the BCS Title Game.

There were two types of people staying at our hotel: Economists and Ohio State Fans. Well, and me.

Once it got out that I was a Michigan alum, I was done for. I was swept up in a sea of read, born aloft by a crowd of ruddy-faced Midwesterners chanting "one of us, one of us" to that alternate universe called Bourbon Street.

They forced me to drink Bottomless Daiquiris. The made me agree that doing so was not in fact a paradox. They beat me with their Buckeye-beaded lanyards until I confessed, against my will obviously, that the OSU Athletics Department wasn't an utterly corrupt institution.

And I live to tell the tale thanks to the Bottomless Daiquri Girl.

Finished with her shift, she took pity on me and spirited me away. We zigged left, then right, making our way to the more sedate confines of Decatur Street. It was there that I found sanctuary in this quite wonderful record store:

To add to my good fortune, Willie Nelson was playing a three day gig across the street at the House of Blues:

He and his entourage ran inteference for me. Threw up a smoke-screen, if you catch my drift.

So that's where I've been until now. Hidden in the basement of this fabulous record store:

deep in the French Quarter of New Orleans.

Honest to goodness.


But now I'm back with further tales from the Trinity Lofts. In the coming weeks, I'll also be pursuing the secondary aim of this blog: keeping tabs on the local arts scene. Keep you eyes peeled for my coverage of the Duke Performance's Soul Power series and the new Barkley Hendricks exhibition at the Nasher.


For now, let's say goodbye to the Bottomless Daiquiri girl.