am in New Orleans right now. The coffeeshop where I am writing is called PJs, in a part of town called River Ridge. I know: You’ve never heard of it. It is not really close to the French Quarter, though I spent much of this weekend in the French Quarter and man, never mind the tourists, that is one cool city center. If you can ignore the smell of vomit and urine, then you sure do get a lot of soul per square inch. And if you can’t ignore the smell of vomit and urine? Stay home and rent movies. Cuddle on the couch. I don’t mind. Cuddling on the couch RULES. I’ve done a little of that this weekend, too.

On Saturday (and, actually, on Sunday), I went to this cop bar--which is to say, a bar owned and frequented by cops--and everyone was loaded, and someone played a Pogues song, and I was surrounded by drunken cops swinging their glasses of Jamesons as they sang along to the Pogues, and I thought for a moment I might be in heaven. Or an episode of The Wire. I think that scene is, what, third season? The funeral in the bar? Eh, it’s been a while. Can’t remember.

There is so much to say and not enough time to say it. If you have extra time, read this story about The Wire and creator David Simon that ran recently in the New Yorker. The Wire is the best show on television, and I’m sorry to sound like such a stupid critic, but it’s just true. What else? Happy Veterans Day. I would like to extend my thanks to all the brave war veterans of the country, as well as to the brave veterinarians of the country, like my dear friend Jennifer, who takes care of cats and dogs. (Random shout-out=Bubba Skitty.) Brave veterans, please do not let my goofiness take away from your special day. Your sacrifice is much appreciated.