The frothy smells of the Vieux Carre in New Orleans fill a young man's lungs with the seeds of his own decay. The acrid aroma of stale beer and lucky dogs produce a parthenocarpy of self-destruction that begins within the nostrils of a post pubesent male and quickly spreads throughout his senses. I was hell-bent for a long slow ride into oblivion. Or, so I thought.As has been previously pointed out (see yesterday's article), the French Quarter is an incredibly efficient breeding ground for acute teen angst syndrome (ATA). I suffered mightily at the hand of this dreaded disease. This, and the fact that the teen angst scene was a great conduit into the handmaiden of rock and roll - the girlfriend scene. Of course, it wasn't long before the girlfriend scene outpaced both teen angst and rock and roll stardom in the fight for supremacy in this post pubescent male's list of priorities. And the title of guitar-player was put away, along with my Eric Clapton, Peter Frampton, and David Gilmore posters. Of course, the guitar was never put away; it sat around and helped fill in idle moments, or dutifully aided in banging out a quick birthday tune for a friend or a new song idea that happened to make it through my girl-clouded mind. Always a good friend, the guitar sat by me through all the arguments and all the breakups and all the rainy New Olreans afternoons. It was there when I graduated from high school and started my fun, but short tenure at Loyola University. But, that's tomorrow's story.
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