Most of my time these days is spent in New Orleans again, my home-away-from-home. A couple of weeks ago I was attending another of those scientific conferences that I occasionally get to go to as part of this strange new world I find myself in. I listen to scientists and researchers who can look at a collection of letters and signs and proceed to have in-depth discussions about what those letters and signs may or may not mean. I'm amazed at the language of science and research, but reminded that most professions have their own language. I was part of the sports world most of my life, and I know there were phrases we used regularly that confounded and confused others.
This meeting is in the Marriott on Canal, and it reminds me of a story - well, two stories, actually.
It seems the older I get, I can't go anywhere without being reminded of having been there before and something that happened.
This was my first Mardi Gras - which has started again in New Orleans, by the way, although it will be interrupted by Super Bowl XLVII or whatever.
And this will be politically incorrect. Let me say it right up front.
I was seeing my first Mardi Gras, in particular my first Fat Tuesday (that blow-out night of all nights before the solemnity of Ash Wednesday, which I think is such a solemn day because everyone is recovering from hangovers as much as because it's the start of Lent).
The friend I was with had a friend who was a student at New Orleans' Tulane University. This guy and a couple of buddies had rented a room at the Marriott overlooking Canal so they had a place to go to when they needed a break from the revelry - and the cold; it was freezing that year - but could still look down on the parades on Canal Street.
By the time my friend and I got up there, the room was packed, and the two guys who'd rented the room were arguing rather loudly.
Now, here is where it gets politically incorrect.
One of the guys was Jewish. The other, Puerto Rican.
As it turns out, the Jewish guy had meant for the room to only be used by a handful of select people, to keep the traffic down. But the Puerto Rican guy had invited everybody he knew, which in this case meant a lot of his fellow Puerto Rican students at Tulane.
The Jewish guy was furious. They argued, as much about the fact that they'd split the cost of the room and if the Puerto Rican was going to have more friends, he should have paid more of the cost of the room.
Finally, the Puerto Rican guy just turned and stormed off.
Trying to be a nice guy and knowing I was a friend of neither, I said to the Jewish guy, "Hey, I can leave. I'm just here with (my friend). I don't want to be a problem."
The Jewish guy said, "No, it's not you. It's that damn Puerto Rican. You invite one and he brings the whole family. Typical."
Stereotype, right?
And of course I looked at my friends on the way out and said, "typical Jew, arguing over how much the room cost."
The second story occurred the next day. Part of the reason I'd gone to New Orleans was to interview with the Times-Picayune. I'd set up this meeting with the sports editor weeks before. I was still in school but finishing soon and wanted to get a jump on a job.
So Wednesday morning, I wake up early despite having been up late the night before dealing with Puerto Rican and Jews and Mardi Gras parades, put on my best suit and drove over to the Times-Pic building.
I go in and ask for the sports editor. The guard looks at me with a rather funny look on his face and says, "Is he expecting you?"
Of course, and I say, and so the guard sends me up to whatever floor the newsroom was on.
I get up there and the newsroom is basically empty. That's not necessarily unusual, of course; news rarely occurs in the newsroom, and if I was editor of a paper I'd want my reporters outside the building, finding news stories.
There is a receptionist, however, who asks if she can help me. I say I'm there to see the sports editor. She says, "Do you have an appointment?" Again, I say yes.
She says to hold on, and makes a call.
"Is (the sports editor) in?" she asks someone.
I don't hear the answer.
"Do you know when he's coming in?"
I don't hear the answer.
She looks up and says, "He's not in, and no one was expecting him. Let me call him at home."
Clearly this isn't going well.
She calls his house, and after what seems like an eternity, she gets him on the phone, explains what is going on, and this fresh-faced college kid is standing in front of her in a nice new suit expecting to talk to the sports editor of the Times-Picayune.
Finally, she hands me the phone.
The voice I hear on the other end is very tired and, if I may say so, sounds very hung-over.
"Ray,'' he says, "Sorry I'm not making it in the office today. You're just graduating from college, right?"
Correct, I say.
"Well," he said in this graveling, just-woke-up voice, "we don't really have anything, but I'll keep your resume on file."
And so I went home with a valuable lesson:
Never go for a job interview in New Orleans on Ash Wednesday.
It's a religious holiday; everyone is preparing for Lent.
Or maybe recovering from Mardi Gras.
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