My introduction to tequila came via a naive freshman girl during my second year of undergrad in 1994.  The method employed involved an activity she labeled “machine shots.” Coca-Cola was poured into a shot glass already containing cheap tequila, the shot glass was slammed onto the table to make the Coke fizz, and then the drink was consumed.  I watched her do this at least 15 times.  Did I mention this girl was about 5’2” and maybe 100 pounds?  A few hours later, I was driving her to the Druid City Hospital’s emergency room to make sure she didn’t die.  Was I scared of tequila after this experience?  You bet your ass I was.  I avoided it for the next 4 years.

(photo source)

On Cinco de Mayo 1998, my friend Jesse had a party to commemorate the holiday.  Everyone was instructed to bring tequila; he was to mix margaritas.  I brought whatever was cheapest; I didn’t know enough about tequila to realize quality matters.  A few hours later, we were being escorted out of Bobby Dodd stadium by the Georgia Tech campus police after we’d scaled the fence, jumped off the 10 meter high dive, and begun kicking field goals.  I’m certain we would have gotten away with it, but for the crappy tequila.

In 2000, some friends from school and I flew from Atlanta to Los Angeles to watch the University of Alabama beat UCLA at the Rose Bowl stadium Labor Day weekend.  We were ranked #3 in the country; they weren’t.  We ran back a punt in the opening minutes for a touchdown, and I knew we were going to cover the spread.  And then Deshaun Foster slalomed through the Bama defense for 187 yards and 3 touchdowns.  We lost by 11.  Determined to make our trip to L.A. an enjoyable one nonetheless, my friend Jim Bob opened a bottle of Cuervo tequila.  And with each shot, the sky got bluer, the grass got greener, and the game got forgottener.  A few hours later, I was certain the Tide had defeated the Bruins.  That was the power of good tequila.

A few months ago, Atlanta was doused in snow and ice during the work day.  Traffic came to a complete standstill.  Children had to spend the night in schools as motorists had to spend the night in cars.  The nation laughed at our inability to drive in 2” of snow.  But not me.  Our office walked to Tin Lizzie’s at lunchtime and spent the entire afternoon shooting tequila and laughing at the frustrated thousands miserably honking their horns at the red light just outside.

It took 20 years, but that day was the pinnacle of my relationship with tequila.  The climax.  The day I realized that good tequila along with games from https://www.onlinecasinogames.com/quickspin/ is about forgetting the lousy circumstances that may surround you and just enjoying time for yourself and the good people who are there to make it better.  The folks who, when life hands you a lime, they hand you a shot of tequila.

And that?  Is the happy conclusion to my 20-year educational history with tequila.  Speaking of history, here’s a video honoring the 219-year history of Jose Cuervo tequila:  the good stuff.  The stuff that won’t get you arrested or sent to the emergency room.  The stuff that makes the day better and your friends friendlier.

This was a sponsored post, but the opinions and stories are mine (as if anyone else could make this shit up). 

The trip began well, as I was bumped to 1st class for the flight down (likely the last time that will happen for a while, as I moved from Platinum to Gold on Delta after February ended)!  I bonded with the older gentleman from Baltimore who was flying next to me to be in the Hermes parade that weekend.  Then, we stowed our bags at the Ritz and headed into the Quarter for a snack at Desire Oyster House before a delicious lunch with North Carolina trial lawyers at Herbsaint. And, I finally did something I’ve wanted to do for the 20 years I’ve been coming to New Orleans–actually sit at the rotating bar at Carousel Bar.  It was all I hoped to be…bumpier than I expected, but fun to slowly travel around the friendly bartenders and get varying views of the scene around me.  Apparently, all I needed to do was start earlier in the day (as in, just after noon)!

Shortly afterward, we made our annual trip to Pat O’s for hurricanes and the unofficial offsite meeting with our fellow conference attendees.  We were there for several hours.  I forgot to have dinner.  I did have a square chunk of cheese at Napoleon House and some Pimm’s Cups at Tropical Isle, which is a lot like dinner.

Next thing I know, I’m singing not once, but twice, at Cat’s Meow.  Then, a bunch of us parked on the balcony to throw shiny plastic necklaces from China at young adults who seemed to be ignorant regarding their low quality and high availability online.

My phone died, and I felt such a tremendous sense of loss and vulnerability afterward that I walked back to the hotel to recharge it and send inappropriate text message solicitations that were not well-received by my wife, who had not been consuming alcoholic beverages for the preceding 13 hours.  Then I took a sustained blink that became a nap.

Friday morning before even showering, we went out for Bloody Marys and to enjoy the riverfront park.  I wrote the hotel slippers I’d worn to breakfast at the club level, because I like incongruous juxtaposition, like Ritz slippers on Bourbon Street at Mardi Gras.

That day for lunch, I finally got a meal at the famous Mother‘s, which usually has a line that goes for blocks, but doesn’t if you wait until 3pm to eat lunch.  It was delicious.

After visiting some other bars, I met up with a friend from law school (who was not there for the conference the rest of us were attending) who attended undergrad at Tulane; we did dinner at Chophouse, which was also outstanding. Then a parade or two, another trip to sing at Cat’s Meow, a stop at Cafe Du Monde at 2am, a walk down to Frenchmen Street for some live music where I bonded with a homeless man who borrowed my pipe for his pinch of marijuana, and Krystal burgers at 4:20am.

Oh yeah, and I wore this for the post-dinner activities:

3.5 hours later, we were up and eating piles of bacon on the club level.  Children were frightened.  Then, it was off to Uptown for the Iris and Tucks parades, burgers at The Company Burger, and a stop by Igor’s for drinks, followed by someone I thought was my friend who proved he wasn’t by buying the 2 of us this:

Any headaches or fatigue I had instantly went away, and all was beautiful again.  We made friends with locals and caught lots of plastic items made in China that I could give my children.

I went home to shower and change for a dinner at Tommy‘s with some of the officers in a professional group to which I belong (so I didn’t want to smell like burger, sweat, and 4Loko).  It too was great!

Then, off to our annual Saturday night before Fat Tuesday Bourbon Street balcony party, which looked like this:

Which was a stark contrast to what I saw right before climbing the steps to our balcony:

Afterward, it was more time on Frenchmen Street with some of the under-30 guys in our group, and finally…about 3am…I tapped out and walked back to the hotel on Canal by myself.

The next day, we navigated around the parade route and actually made our flight home (unlike the trip 2 years ago), and I greeted 3 children with strep throat!  And I longed to be back in New Orleans (or home with healthy children).

Friday night was Maddie’s daddy/daughter dance event at her elementary school.  I’d heard of events like this one from FaceBook, and I knew there was one last year–her first year at this school–but I’d never been to one before (last year conflicted with Mardi Gras weekend in New Orleans).  I was looking forward to it but also had some trepidation.  Half an hour before we left, I wasn’t sure what to wear, for instance.  My bride had spent half the day creating a dress for Maddie at her sewing machine, but I couldn’t decide if I should go business casual, in a suit and tie, a tuxedo, or just casual.  I picked up my phone to text a friend, but then I couldn’t think of anyone to ask (and the one attorney I know whose daughter goes to school with mine was in Virginia doing a closing argument before securing a $3.9M verdict that day).  Five minutes before go time, I walked out with a dark suit and no tie.

I was about to leave, but I thought:  “I’m not going to know any of the dads at this thing, and if I go like this, it’s probable that I’ll leave without knowing any of them, too.”

So, I changed jackets.

Conformity is for pussies.

No fewer than 20 dads introduced themselves to me to compliment the jacket (two said, “I almost wore that exact jacket tonight–thank God I didn’t!”).  When Maddie would run off with the other 2nd grade girls for a “Frozen” sing-a-long, I always knew she could find me when she so desired.  I met several of her friends’ dads, which makes me feel more comfortable with potential “play dates” in the future.

I spent most of the night by myself–in line for the photo booth or in line for ice cream–while my 7-year-old ran around the auditorium looking for her friends.  I’d hoped to dance with her, but she wasn’t interested.  We did, however, enjoy our time in the photo booth together and sitting together for ice cream (twice).

The fact is, Maddie is the most like me of all our children.  She’s uncomfortable in crowds (unless she gets there first) and is not a public dancer; I was the same way until my 20s.  That said, she was genuinely appreciative of my going with her, and I’m glad I went.

The next day after morning swim lessons, Owen requested some “gentlemen time” in the form of going together to the “man barbershop” that opened a few months ago a couple miles from our house:  V’s Barbershop.  He sat down in front of the guy who usually cuts his hair while I waited on the guy who usually cuts mine to finish with another customer.

As soon as his backside hit the booster seat, he said:  “I want a Mohawk.”

Barber:  Dad, is he going to get a Mohawk today?
Me:  Ummm…you sure about that buddy?  Here, let me show you what that looks like (searching Google Images for Mohawk pictures)…see?  Don’t you think you’ll be cold with no hair on the sides of your head?
Barber (quietly):  I can just cut it like normal and spike it up in the middle if you’d like…
Owen:  I want a Mohawk!
Me (texting my bride to make sure she won’t shoot us both):  Let’s do it!

And so it began.

My haircut started before his finished, and as I began swapping war stories with my former Army barber like we do every Saturday haircut, I forgot about the butchery occuring just to my left.  Until, “Daddy!  He’s done!”

And then:  “The girls at my school are going to be so…AMAZED!”  And so was his mother, who had to conceal her teary eyes from the sheer horror of her little boy’s greeting her with his new ‘do when we returned home.

That evening, I’d reserved a dad/daughter dinner at Chick-fil-A for 4:30pm (apparently, they do this every year, but it was my first time to attend).  My bride made another dress for 3-year-old Lola (whom I was slated to bring to our health club’s dad/daughter dance later that night), and I took the two girls to CFA.  I wore the same jacket.

When the 3 of us walked into the restaurant, the entire staff (cashiers, wait staff, cooks, etc.) gave us a standing ovation.  Apparently, most men don’t dress up to take their daughters to a fast food chicken joint.  We ate some chicken, got some pictures, and then enjoyed a “back stage” tour of the kitchen and food prep areas.  And, we met the cow.

Maddie:  “Look!  That guy has on a cow costume just like you used to wear the rat costume at Chuck E. Cheese!”

Then we went back home for a minute to drop off Maddie, and Lola and I left for the gym’s event.  Even when presented with the option of staying at the indoor playground another few minutes, she opted to go to the dance.

We ran into a drinking buddy an attorney I know when we walked in, and he stopped slurping his smoothie to run over to us and meet Lola (and tell her that her dad is crazy).

Once we got to the upstairs gymnasium, the dance was wholly different from the previous night’s experience.  Lola sprinted to the dance floor.  She did backspins on the ground, hula hooped, hopped on two feet, and did a move I’ve never seen before in which she’d grab my hands, plant her left foot on my right knee, and then flip upside down over and over again. I recorded a couple vines of her.

The DJ motioned for me to come to his table, reached into a box he had hidden underneath, and put a crown on my head while bowing before me.

“That jacket…” he said.  “You need gold to go with your silver!”

Lola gave me a break for a few minutes when she spotted the crafts table, so I approached an orthopedic surgeon who’s helped some of my clients; he was with his daughter.

A few minutes later, a man in sunglasses approached me, extended his right hand, and said, “I know there isn’t another man in Atlanta with that jacket, so I assume you were at the dance last night, too?”

Both men have daughters who are in 4th grade; both said they figured it’d be the last year their daughters would want to go to an event like this with them.  “I’m going to keep coming as long as she’ll let me,” the doctor said.

“Enjoy it while you can,” the one in sunglasses told me. “Before you know it, she’ll only be have time for her iphone and her friends,” he continued.

I looked over at my 3-year-old, who was removing her socks and shoes while allowing the construction paper wings on her Popsicle stick butterfly to dry. She ran toward me.

Lola: “Can we dance some more, Daddy?”

I waved goodbye to my new friends and followed Lola back to the dance floor, eager to push iphones and her friends as far into the distant future as possible.

I was a “live blogger” for the conference, like I was the last blogging conference I attended in New Orleans, Mom 2.0 in 2011.  This was good, because it made me attend all the sessions and pay attention to them.  The quality of the keynote speakers, posts that were read, TEDnite talks, and panels were even better than they’ve been in past years.  This was the 3rd year for a Dad 2.0 conference, and it seems to have truly hit its stride.

Plus, I got to hold a gator!

And photograph a Canadian!

Being New Orleans, we took advantage of the night life.  Though I didn’t go anywhere new, I enjoyed leading old and new friends to some of my favorite bars in the French Quarter, like Sazerac Bar, Napoleon House, Old Absinthe House, Carousel Bar, and Cat’s Meow.  We ate at the excellent Irene’s Cuisine and Mr. B’s.  We also ate at the not-so-excellent Krystal and Lucky Dog stand (both between 2 and 3 a.m.).

Is it just me, or does this guy look like he belongs in Boulder?

There was the usual karaoke performing by Amy and me at Cat’s Meow.

And some extraordinary enunciation via text messages with my friend Mike:

I’m not sure what “Marne” means, but I’m certain it’s profound.

Most surprising from this year’s Dad 2.0, however, was that I actually had several takeaways.  Not just action items to try and kickstart my lagging new file openings from the past 2 quarters that I gleaned from the SEO session and roundtable, but some regarding how to parent and how to be a better man.

I’ve told this to Caleb, the moderator, but the talk on “Parenting it Forward:  Compensating for Our Own Flawed Fathers” may be the most impactful session I’ve ever heard at any professional seminar.  I left in awe of the transparency displayed by Charlie, Ryan, Eduardo, and Caleb, along with several areas in which I want to either improve or make damned sure I don’t fall down.  I’m grateful that I happened to have been assigned to cover that session, as I’ll never forget it.

The “companion” conference, Mom 2.0, is in Atlanta this May at the Ritz in Buckhead, maybe 1/2 mile from my office.  I think I may have to drop in and see some of the fine folks with whom I spent last weekend.

And as for Dad 2.0 in 2015?  I’ve already bought my ticket.

As you may have heard in the news, Atlanta had a bit of snow yesterday about lunch time.  I had to see my allergist that morning and saw the flakes in Cobb County, just north of the city.  I was excited.  When I arrived at my office in Buckhead, there were merely flurries.

Half an hour later, the snow was coming down for real.  A few of us ate lunch in our conference room like we do almost every day, and a few others walked to Tin Lizzy’s for lunch and drinks. My work wife and I decided the work day was over; his paralegal and our shared bilingual case manager headed home.  My head paralegal and I decided to get some work done for a bit.  I looked outside my window.

The parking lot was getting whiter, and the number of cars was getting smaller.  I decided to join the group at Tin Lizzy’s and started walking out the parking garage.  Every level of the garage was so backed up with cars trying to leave that I would not have even been able to back my car out of its spot, much less drive anywhere.  I then knew going to a bar was the right decision.  I texted my para and suggested she do the same in lieu of trying to head home.

The bar was empty except for two tables of patrons; one was my 3 suitemates.  I promptly had 2 margaritas to catch up.  Then we got shots of tequila.

I began to give nary a damn about the traffic surrounding us in Atlanta.  We ordered more pitchers; we were joined by 3 others from our suite; we ordered more pitchers.  At 1:52pm, my cell rang, and an automated voice told me Fulton County schools would let out that day at 1:45pm–7 minutes ago.  I knew traffic was about to go to complete shit.  Our server came by and told us they were closing early, so we walked back to the office.

Lucky for us, our office is full of alcohol, left over Halloween costumes, sports equipment, and a “can do” attitude.  We set up a tailgate party in the parking lot with my work wife’s Range Rover.  I didn’t have a suitable jacket, but I did have an animated furry dog costume.

Know what’s warm in a windy snow storm?  Dog fur.

A used trial exhibit became a surf board, and a Storm Trooper mask became a safety helmet because, after all, we’re injury lawyers.  Safety matters.

Snow storms are great for core workouts.  As long as a safety helmet is used.

Know what goes well with Maker’s Mark?  Snow!  I called this drink a “January.”

About 5:30pm, the party came to an end, as we were satisfied that our building’s entire parking deck was now empty.  We broke camp, and everyone headed out into the storm.

I had decided (after checking the traffic maps on my phone) that I would spend the night at my office, but my bride seemed to think I could (and should) make it home.  I drank some water and debated whether to try and drive home in the snow after an afternoon of tequila and bourbon consumption.  My paralegal was still in the office and decided she’d brave the roads; I followed a few minutes later.  It was 6:15pm.*

I took back roads (Land O Lakes Drive) for the first 5 minutes but then needed to drive 1/8 mile on a pretty busy 4-lane, Roswell Road, to get to Interlochen.  It was miserable.  A mail man had abandoned his vehicle in the right lane; the left lane was at a standstill, and the lanes going the opposite direction were full of cars spinning out and into the shoulder/ditch while trying to go up the hill my lane was going down.  I sat for 15 minutes or so texting my wife and telling her this was not going to happen.  I pulled a U-turn, went around the skidding cars like I was running a slalom course, and turned onto a residential back road (Laurel Forrest Circle), using the Waze app.  My goal was to wind through as many discreet residential streets as possible.

I came out on Lake Forrest by Chastain Park, passed a bunch of sedans going 5 mph, and got north of the park, turned left on West Wieuca, turned right on Dudley, and continued through residential streets up to Powers Ferry.  I crossed Mt Paran and slammed on the breaks.  Cars everywhere:  sideways, backwards…it was a clusterfuck.  I did another U-turn, went right on Mt Paran, was about to turn on Rebel Trail when a local resident was blocking it with cones (it’s very hilly and curvy).  I took Jett, headed north, went right on Crest Valley, crossed Powers Ferry (which was gridlock), and came to Mt Vernon Pkwy.  I went around a curve and then saw several cars stopped on the side of the road, so I went around them.  A sedan was headed down a huge hill toward us; a Ford F150 was waiting to go up.  I pulled up behind him.

The car coming down pulled off to his right, and the F150 took off up the hill; I followed right behind.  He stopped halfway up and began skidding…then he put it in reverse, so I had to as well.  We both went down the hill to the bottom, and he pulled up beside me.

Him:  Quit following me!  I need to get some speed up to get up the hill.  You’re making me nervous!
Me:  Sorry…I struggle with patience.  And, I thought you had it.
Him:  You got 4 wheel drive?
Me:  I have all wheel drive.
Him:  Well, you’re ahead of me now.  You try it.

So I floored it (after a quick prayer).  Both sides of the street were lined with residents–dads with their sons in their front yards, commuters who’d given up driving and pulled to either side of the road, and gawkers.  As my diesel X5 hummed up the hill, they cheered and encouraged me.  I pushed the gear shift into “manual” and continued in M2 gear.  A yellow light started to flash on the dashboard, but I was afraid to look down and see what it was; I kept accelerating up the enormous hill…

A minute or two later, I was at the top.  I’d made it.  The onlookers cheered as I pulled away, turned right on Mt Vernon Hwy, and made my way through the last 1.5 miles to our house.  I arrived just after 7pm:  45 minutes to drive what’s usually a 15 minute commute (although it was more meandering this time) on a night when Facebook told me folks were spending 4, 5, 6, even 12+ hours to drive home from work or school.  I had won the Atlanta snow/traffic debacle from Hell, and it felt damned good.

I even had time to hug the children before bed.

photo source

*The reason I included a fairly detailed account of how I went from my Buckhead law office to Sandy Springs in under an hour is because everyone I’ve told about my commute time has asked how in the Hell I did that, saying it’s the fastest/easiest drive home at that time anyone has heard from last night!  I’d like to thank God, German engineering, Maker’s Mark, and the Academy (in that order).

I get the “The Atlantic” delivered to my office each month, and in September’s issue there was an interview by actor Andrew McCarthy of travel writer Paul Theroux entitled “I Hate Vacations.”  I liked the last few sentences of the interview so much that I ripped the bottom corner out of the magazine and saved it.  When rearranging the bookshelves next to my side of the bed, I recently found the bottom right hand corner of page 43, and here’s what it said:

PT: There’s a reason to travel, to verify which way the world is going.
AM: You have a line in the book: “My only boast in travel is my effort.”
PT: I’m glad you remember that, because you can’t boast about really anything else. At least I can say “I put in an effort and I tried to see it.” To see things as they are makes you free—to see things as they are, not nostalgically, not as you wish they were. Just to see them.

I never feel more alive than when I’m exploring a new city…on foot…day and night…seeing things as they are.

And, I’m glad to be going to my 3rd (there have only been 3) Dad 2.0 Summit in 3 days.  Especially since it shouldn’t have life-altering negative consequences this year!

For years, I’ve watched as the privileged peddle products they’ve received in the mail while figuring out cute ways to toss in something that wittily alludes to something resembling a required disclosure statement not unlike the 6-font exculpatory clauses I hide in the contracts of adhesion I pass to unknowing clients under the guise of “this shit will get you paid!” every day.  But not me.

I decided to break that tradition, however, when emails vaguely resembling the following dialogue were passed between my inbox and some marketing dude’s from New York:

Him:  So, would you like to help with a campaign for Dove Men + Care this fall?
Me:  Just what are you implying, bitch?
Him:  That all men need to be clean and smell good?
Me:  As long as you’re not singling me out…okay.  I’ve actually been a Dove soap user since my first year of college, when my friend Jim Bob carried a pink bar into the community showers at our shared dormitory.  I think I insulted his masculinity.
Him:  That’s not really what we’re looking for here…
Me:  No!  You interrupted me!  He said it made his skin soft and smooth like his sister’s backside!
Him:  I really don’t think …
Me:  And I’ve been using it ever since.  Other than its propensity to melt quickly in the soap tray, I dig it!

And so, I got a box full of the above-pictured items in the mail.  And I used them.  So I emailed the guy from New York again:

Me:  Dude!  I took those supplies with me to a conference in St. Simons Island last week, and nobody commented on my odor!  Even after going for a run on the beach!
Him:  Is this a rarity for you?
Me:  Who’s the talent, and who’s the crew here, asshole?
Him:  I’m going to assume that’s rhetorical.
Me:  In any event, I liked the loofa, shower gel stuff, soap, and deodorant.  But the real test was when I got home after being away from the Mrs. for 4 nights!
Him:  Yeah?  How’s that?
Me:  Because my balls smell horrible after a marathon love making session!  And I mean, HOR-RI-BLE.
Him:  You know, I don’t think we particularly need you to write anything about your experience with Dove after all…
Me:  Wait!  I had a quick, post-coital shower, used that body wash stuff rigorously on the underside of my scrotum, scratched my balls, and then sniffed my hand, and that SHIT WAS LIKE LILACS IN SPRING!
Him:
Me:  When do I get my next batch of products to review?
Him:
Me:  Hello?

*This post originally published on DadCentric in Oct 2011.

As a youngster who liked SEC football, the Sugar Bowl was a mythical place where young men went to become champions, and the privileged few with time and money and driver’s licenses went to be a part of it all.  I heard stories growing up of how my grandfather went to the train station to see his Crimson Tide classmates off on their long trip to Pasadena at the Rose Bowl to fight for a national title, and how my parents went to see their Crimson Tide classmates play in the Orange Bowl for their national championships, but by the time I was alive, it was the Sugar Bowl.  In the pre-BCS ’80s and ’90s, the Sugar Bowl was where the best team in the SEC played for all the marbles.  Our family had a painting of the Goal Line Stand from the ’79 Sugar Bowl hanging above our mantel, and it was beautiful:

Seeing a Sugar Bowl live was something I had to do, or the smaller version of me from the 1980s would be forever unsettled.  And so, despite the fact that this year’s game wasn’t going to determine a national championship, when my friend since 1983–Jody–invited me to accompany his wife and him to the game, I bought plane tickets and booked a hotel on Canal.  The next morning, I told my bride we were taking our first trip to New Orleans together.

We landed on Thursday the 2nd, met our friends, and took our ravaged stomachs to Stanley in Jackson Square, where we learned that if we waited a mere 1 hour + 45 minutes, we could have brunch there!  Apparently, our idea was not as original as my ideas usually are while traveling.  So, we walked into a the French Market food court and got breakfast at Meals from the Heart, where the crab cake passion is “yummy and so affordable,” per a yelp review.  I agree.

Shortly afterward, it was off to Bourbon Street to enjoy the Carousel Bar (where my dad had his first cocktail), Chart Room, and (eventually) dinner at Borgne, where I had the best po-boy I’ve ever had (and this was my 15th trip to New Orleans, and each trip was several days long, so I’ve had myself a po-boy or 20) while just a short walk to the Mercedes-Benz Superdome, where I stuffed my boots with flexible flasks (a Christmas present from my paralegal) full of Booker’s (a Christmas present from my other paralegal) and tried not to sink into deep depression over the travesty of football being played below me by the boys in crimson.

The game ended, and we found our way to the Sazerac Bar at the Roosevelt Hotel to down some Gin Fizzes like Huey Long used to down himself some Gin Fizzes (and if you haven’t had a Gin Fizz at the Sazerac Bar, well, you pretty much lead a life of such deplorable shit that I’m not certain I want your readership any more).  And we closed that bitch down like the champions the team we’d come to see failed to be.

If they aren’t putting out the “wet floor” signs when you leave the bar, you ain’t doin’ it right.

It was only 2:30, so we went to the Old Absinthe House on Bourbon until the women folk started requesting that we return to the hotel.

The next day, we had that breakfast at Stanley we’d wanted the day prior, watched street performers in Jackson Square, and had daytime drinks at Napoleon House and Pat O’Brien’s.

Then it was nighttime drinking at Erin Rose, more po-boys at Killer Po-boys, and down the street a block to watch college football and have Pimm’s Cups in a haunted former brothel called May Baily’s Place.  Because where else would you want to watch bowl games but a place employing Lewd and Abandoned Women?

The next day, we flew back to Atlanta.  A quick and rather tame trip to New Orleans, but a great one nonetheless.

Luckily, I go back in 3 weeks.

I seem to have taken a month off from posting (or reading) blogs.  From what I read online, such is the trend, as blogging slowly fades away in favor of bursts of information delivered on the Facebook.  Speaking of the Facebook (via its purchased Instagram), here are a couple videos prepared by Flipagram and Statigram summarizing 2013, better than several paragraphs of typeface could do.

For the first time in my adult life, we sent out Christmas cards. Instead of sending a picture of our family with a dude dressed like Santa like normal families do (or a happy vacation photo), we had Heather Ross draw a picture of our family, like Jim at Sweet Juniper did:

As usual, there were several holiday parties this December, but fewer than there normally are, given the shortened time period between Thanksgiving and Christmas this year (thanks, November, for starting on a Friday, you asshole).  Also as usual, my favorite of the 10 or so parties I actually attended was the one I co-hosted in a barn down the street from my office.  My bride made a velvet dress, we booked my friends Electric Avenue to play ’80s covers, and we had more liquor than you can shake a stick at.

And after a few hours, as usual, shit got weird in the photo booth.

These are the people with whom I fight the proverbial “good fight” every day, and they are awesome.

Luckily, we had elf-clad bartenders to keep the peace.

And did you notice that handsome tie I’m wearing?  A sales associate at the Atlanta Billy Reid drove it to my office and handed it to me after I realized the one I’d bought online wasn’t going to arrive in time for my party.  Best customer service I’ve seen as a customer who’s being served.

Truth be told, I’m sad to see 2013 go.  As has happened every year since starting my own firm in 2009, I began the year thinking there’d be no way the upcoming year could be as successful as the year that had just passed (or as fun), but this one has once again proven to be the best yet (meaning I’m quite certain there’s no way 2014 will surpass it)!  At some point, I’ll upload several of the 100+ pictures I took during what will be deemed the Great Muskrat Home Improvement Project of 2013, which took about 6 months to complete, but it may not be until next year.  Why?  Because I’m going to New Orleans in a few days for the Sugar Bowl.  And tomorrow is Chris’s (my “work wife”) birthday, followed by New Year’s Eve.

Happy New Year’s, people.

I thought airfare was included.  It wasn’t.

I won all of them.  Oops.

A couple weeks later, we were on a plane for San Diego.  I got bumped to first class, and since my bride has never flown first class, I decided not to leave her in coach like I’ve done in the past, and I used 30,000 Delta sky miles to bring her up with me.  She liked the hot towels and breakfast food.

I’d always wanted to go inside the bar where Goose plays “Great Balls of Fire” for his wife, Maverick, and Charlie.  We went.

We had the bbq there.  It sucked. My bride had stomach issues for the 2 days that followed.

I did bang on the keys Goose played in that memorable scene featuring his singing with his family, though.  I’d hoped to see Miramar, but “Top Gun” left the facility in 1996 and moved to Nevada, so I saw little point.

That night, we met my Dadcentric friends Andy and Seth for some drinks at a place deemed The First Gay Brewery in the World.  It was awesome.  Add “making beers” to the list of things gay men do better than straight men.

Then we hit a karaoke joint but were too late in the evening to get called up to sing.

The next morning, we were off to Mexico.  I was surprised how easy it was to drive across the border.  No one looked at our passport.  No one stopped us.  No one gave a damn.

We checked into the Rosarito Beach Hotel on the Baja peninsula in Mexico.

See that short, wide building full of older, shittier rooms in front of the tower of new rooms behind them?  That’s where they put the folks who won their rooms at a charity auction that raises funds for kids who’ve been victimized by sexual predators.

The bedroom was in the front of the suite, so it was right by the door to the outside (and had a window that faced the sidewalk leading to all the other doors).  It was quite loud at night.

We did have a nice view out of the den window, however, of the water and pier.

The weather was rather cool, so we didn’t actually get in the water or spend any time on the beach.  Instead, we opted to do a wine tour–something neither of us had ever done (in Napa or anywhere else).  I thought we’d board a tour bus for said wine tour, but instead, we climbed into the back seat of some Mexican dude’s personal vehicle.  I tried to image what the demanded ransom would be when we were dropped off at the drug cartel’s headquarters as we sped toward the mountains.

I got a picture with the son of a bitch, just in case he sold us, so I could email it to a reporter I know.

Our first stop was a brand new winery with a big old vineyard behind it and a cool basement with delicious wines to try for pretty reasonable prices.  They even had a wine club you could join.  It was fancy.

The second place was a little shop where we were given cheese and several wines to taste, but there was no vineyard attached.  It got the grapes from elsewhere and then blended them.  I believe it was called “Midnight Sun” if my translation was right.

It was good, too, and we met a lady from southern California who liked to give us unsolicited advice about wines.  She also suggested we go to another place just down the street, so we went.  It was Mexico’s largest winery.

Here, we learned things like red wine and white wine ferment in different sized/shaped vats and for different amounts of time.

We had a bit of time left, so we went down a bumpy dirty road to a tiki bar of sorts that allowed tasting of liqueurs.  Each shot tasted like melted ice cream, and since I really like ice cream for dessert, I had about 15 of them and even bought a few bottles!

Next, we climbed a mountain (in the back seat of our driver’s car) to eat at a restaurant in Puerto Nuevo, and it was awesome. I think it translated to the “fisherman’s house.”

We sat outside.

And heard some live music.

Then the driver took us back to the hotel, and I walked across the street to the only open business now that it was dark outside, and I talked to the artist who was painting there, and we left with 2 oil paintings on canvas.  The artist seemed starved for company, so he hollered outside to his “wine guy” who magically appeared with a full bottle and 3 glasses from the darkness outside.  We talked about trips to Spain, his childhood in Mexico, and differences in American and Mexican pop culture and music while the bottle of wine disappeared.  Eventually, I staggered back to the hotel with my 2 rolled up canvases.

We had “fast passes” to get across the border in the special lane reserved for medical personnel and people with fast passes, but I didn’t realize these lanes were one in the same, so we sat with the plebes for around an hour waiting to cross the border.  We made it, however, and then flew home in time to be here to smoke and fry 2 turkeys at Thanksgiving 2 days later.  And, I made the artist guy my Facebook friend.

All considered, it was a good trip.  I give Mexico 4/5 stars, since no one kidnapped us.  However, given that it was the “off season,” it would have been nice to have been given a room in the nicer, newer tower at the Rosarito Beach Hotel, like where Robert Redford had just stayed to shoot “All is Lost.”  If we go back, I’ll go when it’s warmer and try to surf.  Also, I’ll get a better room (where the doors lead to an interior hallway instead of the loud outside).

Thanks for sending us to Mexico, charity organization that helps sexually abused children!