New Orleans

There’s no open container law in New Orleans. At least there wasn’t 5 or so years ago, pre-Katrina when my fraternity had our annual convention there. (yes, I was in a fraternity. It was professional, not social,and we're all considered brothers. And don't worry, I didn't consider myself real greek so all of you social people out there untwist your panties) So take one spring break (a bunch of college kids itching for a release), plus no open container law (alcohol flowed liberally), minus any sort of inhibitions (due to aforementioned beverages), equals over 200 very drunk college kids and alumni. It’s a safe bet that some portion of everyone's memory is blank over the course of those four days.

So when the question comes up, “hey remember in New Orleans when we…” and I say “no I don’t,” everyone laughs because they can't either. So then we try and patch the fuzzy details together and form some sort of mirthful memory. Like how awesome the 99-octane was. And the to-go cups of jack were quite possibly one of the most brilliant ideas ever. We danced to awesome 80’s glam rock outside the club because even combined; our female wiles were utterly useless against the gay burly bouncer, and he wouldn’t let us in. And when that moment had past and we blithely stumbled through the sticky street, we hailed a cab for the remaining two blocks to the hotel, because walking was simply no longer an option. The four days in New Orleans were filled with hilarious spotty stories that we relish in retelling (until we have children and deny we ever did anything of the sort, clearly). But as many times as they are retold, I can't remember a single one. Because I was never there.

No, seriously, I wasn’t there. But everyone else was so loopy, that didn’t seem to register with anyone. Not that I blame them, there were higher priorities then remembering my presence; like remembering your own name and who had everyone’s underwear for example. So when people ask “remember in New Orleans..?” and I say no, it's because I wasn't there to remember anything. And I’ve explained this to many people, but that seems to baffle them even more. So now, when the subject comes up, I laugh along and pretend I was there. I blame their own inebriation for why they can’t actually remember my presence, or how come I’m not in any pictures either. Which seems to make a lot more sense to them, and it’s a lot easier to explain that way. So no, I don’t remember New Orleans, but really, no one else did either.