Dear Diary . . . (Dec. 8th - 10th)

Monday, December 8th

Dear Diary,
Today I woke up with a pounding headache and a foggy memory of being hard since a lil one. Do I know this guy, Diary? All I can truly remember is dappin' it up, dynomite-style, with a cracked-out Ernie in Cafe 641, as Pierre Thomas took the Falcons' Curtis Lofton for a ride. And a drive home, courtesy of Cafe 641's top, top-row mother-daughter combo.

P.S. Does Roger Goodell know that in the Superdome, even the stadium attendants drink from a flask after touchdowns? I vaguely remember a tap on the shoulder after my second swig of Hennessy. Turning around, I handed over the flask to our very own Cafe 641 stadium attendant, who finished off the flask in a neat 2-seconds before returning it.

Tuesday, December 9th

Dear Diary,
My head feels more clear today, Diary, and I now feel confident in making the following list of things found/things lost in the Superdome over the past few weeks.
Things found: a new found appreciation for the adhesive qualities of Kraft American Singles; a deep-tissue bruise just behind my knee-cap, apparently the result of a fatal third Dirty Dog in a single game; a deep understanding of the importance of linebacker play; a Mother Hen.

Things lost: little plush Chef; a 22-inch Golden Spoon given to me on the eve of our 2006 playoff victory by Proud Mary and Mr. Rita Benson LeBlanc; my liver; a tube of eyeblack; my patience with Sean Payton.

Wednesday, December 10th

Dear Diary,
Did I ask the entire Cafe 641 to my house to view the Bears' game for tomorrow night? Whose idea was that? When did I make that ill-fated decision? Is that guy Jimmy V. coming with his hot girlfriend "whats-her-name?" Did I agree to cook?