while ago, I mentioned that I’d been mugged in New Orleans. It wasn’t a metaphor. I really was mugged, and more than that, I’ve been flown down this weekend to testify in the trial against my accused. Talk about some serious Law & Order shit.

I can’t say anything about the case, except to mention that I was nervous to come here, that I was anxious for days, and that my parents, sweet as they are, decided to come join me for the weekend. It’s nice to have company. After all, the last time I stood in the French Quarter I was nursing a throbbing, bruised melon on my forehead and mourning the loss of my Dolly Parton tote.

I worried that this would be something of a miserable trip. But that was before I got to my hotel. Because at my hotel, there is THE FIRST-EVER PIRATE’S CONVENTION. Did you even know this existed? Of course you didn’t. Because it never existed before today! There are pirates in the lobby, pirates clogging the elevators. At the bar, there are pirates drinking beer out of their own engraved silver mugs. There are also wenches. The wenches have serious cleavage. I mean, imagine the Playboy Bunnies, and then imagine if they decided to get serious boob jobs.

I totally love pirates. What’s not to love?

“Stormy, are you looking for the blacksmith store?” one pirate asked another.

Another, a handsome black fellow with dreadlocks, stood up from his barstool, and said, “Aaargh.”

I started talking to two wenches beside me. They were from Florida. I ordered a vodka tonic, and one of them said, “I can’t believe you just ordered vodka at a pirate’s convention.”

MY BAD. I explained that I’ve never been a huge fan of rum. I explained that I’d love for them to suggest a nice rum to try. I explained, at least in my head, that I hoped the rum they suggested wouldn’t be some crap like Captain Morgan’s.

“Captain Morgan’s is great,” my wench told me.

“I’ll try that,” I said.

My parents showed up. My Dad and I started examining maps to figure out where we eat dinner, and before I knew it, my mother had been whisked away by the pirates. She loved talking to them. She is so much like me it’s ridiculous. When I discovered her, she was knee-deep in a conversation about corsets or flints or some shit.

“We invented ‘Talk Like a Pirate Day,’” one of the men told her.

“Oh, good for you,” she told them, as if he’d gotten an A+ on his exam.

Talk Like a Pirate Day! (That's them in the picture, by the way.) I told them I’d heard of it. My parents were impressed. They're so cute, and anachronistic, no matter where I take them. But as we walked away from the hotel, into the swarm of the French Quarter, I noticed something funny. I felt safe.