I’ve just returned from several days in New Orleans for an associate’s wedding. Loyal Scaiaholics will recall his bachelor party in San Antonio.

First, it’s a bachelor party in San Antonio. Then, a wedding in New Orleans. In that other blog, I wrote about how Jesus would stand up and object because my associate chose Easter weekend for his bachelor party. Now, the smart money was on the mayors of Dallas and Fort Worth nudging Jesus out of the way to ask why those two refused to make loving memories in the Metroplex.

A wedding in New Orleans did, however, give us all time to do some gambling. Some serious gambling. Then, time-permitting, we would also attend the ceremony.

It had been a while since I shot craps. Because Oklahoma thinks it’s better than craps, you can only play blackjack up there.

Since I’m such an excellent shooter, though, and took time to gently explain to my associates why you only place a minimum bet on the point and then max out your odds and place bets, we had all gathered round the table to enjoy the game.

A photo op at a craps table would be gauche, but rest assured, we all cleaned up. And then I lost all of it at a blackjack table. A stupid blackjack table. You hear that, Oklahoma?! Blackjack’s stupid!

But we had won at the craps table in a timely fashion, so off we all went to the wedding and then the reception. I was staying at a hotel downtown, and, as a conversation starter, I showed several people this picture I took as I left the hotel that morning.

“Look at this picture,” I’d say. “Isn’t it hauntingly beautiful?”

People would murmur something and then excuse themselves from the conversation. In my defense, a spray bottle left behind by the housekeeping crew in an empty hallway is absolutely an artistic expression of, like, economic disparity or intense longing or something.

The next time I’m in Tahiti, I’ll mention it to Herman Melville. He’ll understand.

Kudos to the families involved for hiring a bus to haul us all around. After the reception, we would be dropped off at the home base, but the bride and groom had declared that we should meet them on Bourbon Street because, you know, it’s not a like a bride and groom would have anything better to do on their wedding night.

So off to Bourbon Street we went.

There, I would show people this picture I had taken of a sign in the hotel bathroom about people hanging up their towels. I think most hotels have similar signs but this was the first I’d seen that involved trying to save Lake Pontchartrain.

“Look at this picture,” I’d say. “Is there going to be a day when two Corps of Engineers guys will stick a ruler into the mud to measure Lake Pontchartrain, and then the guy on his knee with the ruler frowns and the other guy shakes his head and says, ‘That guy from Fort Worth shoulda cut those showers shorter.'”

Also, everyone I knew at this wedding lives in DFW or Houston, so I didn’t realize that all of my associates are totally experts on where to get the bestbeignet in New Orleans.

This conversation would occur several times:

“Should we go to Cafe Du Monde?” someone would ask.

“It’ll be crowded. Listen, I know a much better place for beignets,” one of the others would shout him down.

I was in New Orleans in August for the tenth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. Meals were provided to the media at several events, some with freakin’ presidents, and I still wouldn’t consider myself some sort of beignet connoisseur, or “Beignet-nnoisseur,” if you will.

I’m sitting here thinking they could take us to the McDonald’s of beignets (or “McBeignet,” if you will), and I wouldn’t know the difference. Unless they somehow introduced sesame seed buns into the process. I feel like I’d notice that.

In conclusion, congratulations to the bride and groom and congratulations to Lake Pontchartrain. Let’s make it another 4,000 years of lake-ly goodness! I made that exact toast at their reception.