I have to admit, there really isn’t a whole lot going on in my world. This very hot summer is dragging on and on and on, I have no travel plans until October, the damn novel I’m trying to write just simply refuses to write itself, and I reached my maximum smile limit two days ago at work, but I still have to go back there tomorrow.

In short, I’ve got nothing interesting to say.

Which reminded me of all those hot, endless summer nights down in New Orleans. For a couple of years, I was a bartender on Bourbon Street and usually this meant I had to deal with all kinds of crazy shit just about all the time. But some nights, like these sweltering and muggy August nights now, when there were no conventions in town, no events, when the locals who could afford to do so went to c...

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