The Morning After
I awoke in a glorious mood: my girlfriend Julie was coming to town today. Our tumultuous relationship had begun shortly after Megan dumped me, about a year before. Julie, much like Megan, was a perfectly wonderful girl who deserved far better than the likes of me, and would discover that eventually. In the meantime, it would be great to see her . . . and she had a hotel room. I got up, bid a sad goodbye to the cat and its litter box, quietly ran the gauntlet through the still-sleeping roommate's bedroom (whom I noticed was wearing a tight little chartreuse number this morning, very sexy), and burst forth into the street, battered suitcase in tow, like a man released from indenture.
The place was a ghost town. It was gray and cold and rainy. I liked it. I finally had New Orleans to myself. Without the crowds, the city's sense of mystery and romance returned. I spent hours walking around digging the architecture and the feel of the place. During my ramblings I passed the Gazebo (closed today), and saw the two drunks who panhandle across the street from the club every day. With the masses departed, I was able to see that one of them had a battered guitar, and they sang a short song to each person who walked by:
"Money for alcohol, we promise we won't buy booze
Hey, at least we're honest dudes!!"
OK, I know it's not much, but they were still a hell of a lot better than the band at the Hi Ho. I gave them a dollar.
My last few days in town were relatively quiet, except the day I snuck past the security guards at the Gavin Radio Convention. Gavin is a big do held yearly where DJs, radio programmers, radio station owners, radio consultants, promoters, and other flotsam and jetsam of the radio world congregate for some serious schmoozing. Julie did radio promotion for A&M Records before going indie, and she was in town for the convention (and to see me, of course).
The Gavin Convention is also an important gathering for artists who want to get airplay. Major record labels pay thousands of dollars to have their up-and-coming artists showcase at this event. I did not have thousands of dollars or a major record label to spend them on me, but I had every intention of getting heard all the same.
We had a plan.
Julie asked around, and managed to procure me an official convention badge with someone else's name on it. Very sneaky. Convention laminate shining importantly on my lapel, I calmly cruised past the guards and went up the long escalator to the Hilton's upstairs lounge. Hundreds of radio programmers and DJs had congregated up there after a hard day of seminars on how to design their playlists to include more repetitions of "Hotel California" and how to wisely invest payola money for maximum returns. Or something like that. I headed for the piano in the middle of the room, sat down, and started singing and playing as loudly as possible. Pretty soon I drew a respectable crowd.
After a short set, I handed out Bob Malone CDs to all interested parties. There were quite a few. Before embarking on this mission I had stuffed all the pockets of my coat with as many copies of my CDs as would fit – I was loaded for bear. After all the discs were handed out and the radio guys successfully schmoozed, Julie and I took off in search of food and libations.
It was raining hard, and it took us a while to get a cab, but eventually one happened by. We asked for a tourist-free destination where one could get a beer and a cheeseburger, and the Port O' Call was suggested. On the way, we were entertained by the large black woman piloting her cab haphazardly yet enthusiastically through the streets. She communicated with us almost exclusively in song. For example:
Us: "Where can we get something to eat and drink?"
Her: "Do do do do DO – they got really good burgers down at the Port O' Call.
Do do do do DO – It won't take long to get there at all.
Do do do do DO – yeah!"
She got lost twice during the trip, but it was the most entertaining cab ride I've ever experienced (and between New York and New Orleans, I've met some pretty interesting cab drivers). And the Port O' Call was a great bar, home of a really fine cheeseburger.
