My friends Mark and Vicki arrived in town yesterday from Lafayette, Louisiana. I met Mark in 1997, when I was covering a Francophone music festival in his hometown. The first night I was looking for an interesting place to sit with my gumbo and plopped down at his table. I chose well, as he turned out to be a kind of Cajun Woody Allen.
He called a few weeks ago and said that he and Vicki were looking for a place to go to escape Mardi Gras. (We'll see if they chose well.) As for humor, he claimed that over the years he'd lost his touch.
I picked them up at the airport and then drove down to Le Tub for lunch. We got an outside table along the Intracoastal.
"Why do people on boats always wave?" Mark asked, as another friendly party sailed past. I thought: Not really a loss of touch, more a move from Woody to Seinfeld.
"Is it because they feel guilty, having all that money? They think we're poor. Hey, we're not poor. We just paid $20 for a hamburger."
(For the record, we had mahi-mahi sandwiches.)
Heading to their hotel on the beach, we passed near the International Swimming Hall of Fame. "I want to go there," Mark said, "and see Michael Phelps' bong."
