Walking down Bourbon street, it’s 9:30 not too late yet, mid January and Mardi Gras is ramping up, so I don’t want to be out too late.

I’m drawn to a bar by blues stains flowing into the street. Side stepping around a girl flashing her tits for plastic. Too pretty to be pimping her chest out this early.

The band is playing an old T bone Walker number, some say T-bone’s style was the precursor to modern rock guitar.

The guy playing is about my age, corn rows with cowering shells at the ends of short braids. Swaying as he coaxed the music from his hollow body Gibson.

He slips into Jimi Hendricks, which is a good transition since they are musically related, Jimi building on the rules laid down by Walker.

After Jimi, the band slipped into a modern cover of a Nickelback tune.

The spell was broken, I turned and left the bar. Into the street walking around starry eyed girls shirts up and eyes skyward as plastic rained down, their just reward for the hubris of youth.

I headed back to my hotel, lost and alone. No place for me here, a relic.

©The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2013, written entirely on my iPhone.

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