The Ace of Cads.
Today is turning out to be the bestest, most Wonka-esque day ever. Nick Lobo is back in town. Accordion music for everyone and venereal disease for all the ladies.
Stand back. The Ace of Cads has entered the building. I was at Pal’s Lounge, ‘natch.
“Hey, little fox,” Nick Lobo purred into a pretty girl’s ear. He will whisper sweet nothings into an ugly girl’s ear, too. All cats are gray in the dark.
What is it about Nick Lobo that makes women weak in their knees? He is like Shugee.
I took a spoonful of nasal tobacco snuff, then, I felt an urge to blow my nose.
Nick Lobo has some hypnotic power that defies any explanation that mortal men can provide and women cannot describe. He has IT, some kind of animal charisma that cannot be resisted.
Hey, little fox. Those three words have burned bridges.
When Nick Lobo is back in town the hormonal level in Mid-City goes off the charts. Dames can tell he is around. His pheromones travel. Nick Lobo likes to walk with his squeezebox. Nick Lobo is always looking for a gig.
Nick Lobo purred into Leather Tuscadero’s ear. He picked the wrong lady. Leather is mine. We had already spent the day cavorting around the 8th Ward. When I dropped Leather off at her house, she said, “You always leave me sore, Mr. King.”
The roads are very bumpy and full of potholes in the 8th Ward.
This story is about to take a wrenching twist, much like the tobacco snuff detour a few paragraphs above. There is a reason.
The only reason I haven't mentioned this in two and a half years is because it doesn't interest me. I have zero interest in sports.
Every other Thursday, the local ESPN radio station live broadcasts behind where I sit. I mean they are right there. They sometimes bump into me and I pass them glasses of unsweet tea as needed. Since they are talking about sports I automatically tune them out but we chitchat when they are setting up and, if I am still around, when they are breaking down. Nice guys. They are very personable.
Don't ask me what the station's call letters are. I neither know nor care. On this side of the Mississippi River they start with W, though the transmitter is on the West Bank. That part I remember. That part, I find interesting.
I have no interest in sports and the guys know not to try to involve me in their live broadcast. Sometimes, people will try to cajole them to engage me when all I want to do is read the Wall Street Journal or flirt with a pretty lady. We have known each other long enough that the deejays know that I don't covet the glory of radio, even though I have a face made for it. They shoo the lookie-loos away. I enjoy talking to them off mic, when they are not talking about sports. The ESPN crowd is not my target demographic.
Neither are the people who watch Guy Fieri on the Food Network.
Guess who showed up at Katie’s today, and it was not even a Thursday. It was Nick Lobo with his squeeze box and his venereal disease. Nobody was amused. Nick Lobo is 86’d (banned, in restaurant lingo) from Katie’s. He is banned from most places except for Checkpoint Charlie’s and Aunt Tiki’s. Even active child molesters (with children) are allowed in there. They don’t care. Just don’t die in the restroom. That is not what it is there for.
Restrooms are for cocaine.
Leather Tuscadero, who does not do drugs but who hangs out with people I would never hang out with, told me this thing about what happens in the rest rooms at Aunt Tiki’s. It has nothing to do with either cocaine or tobacco snuff. Few life events involve tobacco snuff. Leather has seen it all and then some. We make each other laugh.
I like to show Leather parts of New Orleans that she has no idea exist. I like to show you that, too. There are so many parts to New Orleans that nobody pays attention to. That is my job. That is my beat.
I do not always do a good job but I do whatever it is that I do. I do it for you.