Friday night in New Orleans. I went to 13 Monaghan for dinner and a few beverages. 13 is a great place, and by that I mean it's filled with "characters," amply-endowed female bartenders who keep the drinks coming, frozen irish coffee, and like most places in this town a great jukebox.
Well, I met one of the characters--"Pete." Pete is 68 years old and has an outlandish personality. He loves jazz and loves to talk. He and I hit it off, but I think he hits it off with everybody. He calls the well-tattooed bartender Tara his wife. (Tara is famous. She wears her hair like Betty Page.)
Pete suggested we go to Fritzel's in the Quarter. There was some good old-fashioned NOLA jazz being played there. So we went. Pete is old and had a hard time walking there but he made it. They served me cheap drinks and I drank them.
Two girls came in and I was drunk and I somehow ended up talking to them. One was one of those pretty blondes that looked like she would like pretty blonde boys. The other was a short-ish brown-haired girl that looked like she would like me.
Here is where it gets sketchy, obviously because I was drunk. I talked to them both and the blonde said her name was "Lindsay with an 'a'" and she was from Tucson and her friend was from Virginia. I forgot that part. So she told me again. Then another swarthy-type dude sat down next to the brunette. And at some point they weren't sitting next to us, and I was talking and Lindsay with an "a" leaned over and kissed me. What? The pretty blondes don't like me. They never like me.
We kissed a lot and at some point they left and that was that. We went to dance and then they left. I didn't get her phone number. I didn't find out anything. I was stupid drunk. STUPID.
I am 38 years old and this was a pretty, young, nice blonde. And she kissed me. I mean, I am 38 years old and I could probably count on one hand the times in my entire life that a pretty blonde, with no coercing from me, leaned over and kissed me unexpectedly. I was literally in mid-sentence.
I don't even really know if her name was Lindsay, but the "with an 'a'" stands out distinctly.
So if you know Lindsay with an "a" from Tucson, and she was in New Orleans this past weekend, would you tell her to e-mail me? I'm not desperate (don't ask) for female companionship but I'd like to have a picture of her as evidence that she exists.
