Sunday was a rambler. I worked the Tennesse Williams Festival's music events at the Palm Court, which mostly involved sitting at the bar and sipping some beer, occasionally tilting my head at a comment or verse. At one point, I strolled back to headquarters at the Bourbon Orleans to pick up checks and credentials for a few of the performers, and got caught behind these men (and woman) of the cloth.When things finished up, I biked into Jackson Square, where I ran into a friend who got me up onto the judge's balcony for the Stella contest.
I don't know who won, but I was rooting for the gold-painted mime who simply mouthed the word "Stella" three times. These lil' children took a shot after the judges retreated to their quarters. Initial shyness wore off and these two fellows shouted for about 15 minutes.
Kim was at the big PGA tournament on the West Bank, cause that's how she rolls. After I got home, I took a drive to pick up some food for us.
I'm repeating myself, but certain stretches of time bring you back into the fold, even while completely alone in a minivan: a believer, a member, adrift in the haze and sun-struck grace of the city and its many odd hours.
