Gulf Of Gonzo 1: Musical Grafitti

 

We were wind driving, swirling through east Texas between an 18-wheeler with log chips flying out and a jacked up black suburban with illegal dark tint.  Television was kicking in with Marquee Moon and the gals were in various states of sleeping, navigating, joking, and leaving their worries behind.  Their baby was boarded back in Dallas.  Suddenly, we ran up on some tire debris, all over I-20 ahead of us.  Nothing to do but glide through it, gonna be some rubber on the road, I assured them, be calm, no jerking the wheel.

Real life driving lessons aside, the time for lessons is over and done for now, their life is ahead, and they are formally prepared.  Now the settling in, the removal of testing burdens.  No presentations, no deadlines around here, shake it off in New Orleans.  The Paladar 511 is ready to serve, the wagyu was sliced atop a bean puree, arugula and grilled turnips, and small maple bacon chunks.  Grilled to medium, it was scrumptious.

These streets ain't made for walking, it's a destination town.  We scouted it out, got some places in mind, it's all loose, sticking together, got a blade close.  Lie to bums, gals, simple and quick, "I got nothing, man."  Instead, save your money for the musicians of the night, listen for the jazz bopping and chopping and popping.  Like musical graffiti.