It's Thursday morning right now and I am drinking coffee and pounding this out before I go to the airport. By the time this publishes, I will be in New Orleans, and I most probably be very drunk and happy.

New Orleans is like my safe place, which is odd, because it quite literally is one of the most dangerous places in the country.

Ever since I set foot in the city over twenty years ago now, I've felt at home there, welcomed and loved. This is especially ironic because on my first night in town there were eight murders in sixteen hours, and a slew of other violent, potentially deadly crimes. And it wasn't like this was one person, or one group of people, with an agenda. These were separate, individual incidents, unconnected in any way, all going on independently of one another, but al...

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