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Gaspard Bordelon, dishwasher. Gaspard Bordelon. Sous Chef at Tujague's. Hmm, nice ring. Gaspard Bordelon, opening for Rene Monroe at La Cimitere. He'll give me an autograph then, I reckon.

Hhrmmm.. mmm.... tomorrow will take care of itself.

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Home again, the bar music already blaring downstairs.

So, what do you think, Sparkledancer? Should I call in on that Tujague's want ad? Done annnd done.

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5am. I'm beat as an egg for choux dough but I need to eat before I turn in. Let me just say that the smell of beignet precedes Cafe DuMonde for about a block in every direction. Hi, just milk and an order of your fine beignet please. World is waking up. Well, to be fair, half of it hasn't slept. Mardi Gras season is like that. There's already street musicians coming around, folks sobering up after a long night, families on early breakfast before the tourists fill this place up.

I feel like a tourist, but I want to be home here. I pluck a few notes, just for fun, and one of the Cafe Du Monde staff throws a quarter at me. I think it was to get me to stop playing.

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I let the man go back to peace and looked up to see this gorgeous creature named Sunni Kwan on her way to a late night celebration for a recently deceased friend. Maybe I was tired, but she seemed to take a shine to me. She's single too. I followed her to the grave to pay my respects. Raffi Gonzalez. Man, he was only in his twenties, so much more to contribute. Left a wake of friends too. Rest in Piece...

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"I know what it's like to be driftin in a big river, Son. Current tearin you up, gators showing their teeth.Not everyone you meet is gon like you, but don you pay them no mind. You gotta love yo-self and be authentic. Need a job? Get one. They's a dime a dozen. So is guitar gigs. It's allll steppin stones, one at a time. Don you worry. Before you know it, you be taming dat river yo in." Mr. Rawlins set me right and put me in a better frame of mind. Even invited me back to visit sometime. "Bring a deck of cards, Son. I'll teach you some poker."

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There was only one sensible thing left for me to do; head straight to the St. Louis #1 cemetery under cover of darkness and visit the grave of my spiritual mentor, Tiger Rawlins. He was a Lafourche boy just like me, legendary for crooning bayou blues tunes like "Crazy Gator Stomp","Quit Yer Crabbin","Roux Le Jour", "Call me Crawdaddy" and "Don't Pee in the Pirogue". Life really gets thrown into perspective when one is surrounded by the dead. I suppose my sense of mortality crept up on me, because standing there at the grave of a man I so revered, thinking about all he had already accomplished by my age, I started sobbing like my etouffee had spoiled in the fridge.

The next thing I hear is a familiar gravely voice "Son, who spit in your gumbo?" Well if it ain't the ghost of the legend himself, with a grin as long as the day. I must admit I was very flustered, but honored to be talking to Mr. Tiger Rawlins himself.

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Dinner time at same bistro. Blackened bass with a side of asparagus. I sure hope it's less blackened than my toast from earlier. Alright, who's stalking who now, Rene? How about just a self-i...no? We gotta stop meeting like this. Oh hey, it's getting-in-my-way mouthy lady. Is this town out to get me? Apparently we both got off on the wrong foot previously. Little did I know that I was speaking to the owner of the psychic bookshop,a Miss Tia Dalma. Well, my apologies for my part, Ma'am. She don't mince words, but she is a fine conversationalist. Single too. "For the right one." Not hiring though, it's her shop alone. She'll hold that unicorn book for me though, long as I pick it up tomorrow by close. I spill my proverbial guts and she listens as attentively as if I was her own blood son. "You seem lost, but you are not. Tell you what, Cherie, come in tomorrow for a free reading and some good juju." Was dark out by the time I finished my meal. Reasonable bass, but needed more cayenne.

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Gaspard, we need to focus here. We got a landlord who wants us gone already, no income and no social contacts. Well, what would YOU suggest? You ain't getting no geetar gig until you can get a decent instrument and practice more. Yeah, thanks of the vote of confidence. You aren't listenin! Be practical! Pull on your big man boots and get in there doing some real work. You wanna impress people like Mr. Monroe or those winsome fillies in the bar? Be a man of your word. Don't just dream it, DO IT! Then you can walk tall and mean it! Goddamn. I smell like a day old pile of collards. A little Axe body spray should cover that up.

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You know you're at a place in life when a mime insults you. I hate mimes. A friend once told me he and some buddies catapulted cans of creamed corn at some mimes from a rooftop in Jackson Square. I found such actions wasteful of perfectly good creamed corn. Use that God given goodness for some down-home corn bread and keep it off of those greasy mimes.

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What? A lier? MARSMAYUN34 says I'm a lier? Well let me tell you, HE wasn't there when my own two hands uncovered that priceless relic of alien significance! A GEN-YU-WINE fossil that CLLL-EAR-ly has all the hallmarks of the Zenothusians! Did HE spend half a night in a dark bayou fleeing the mind control beams of the Zenothusians themselves, in the eternal fight to bring evidence of their existence to mankind?! DID HE put a hole in HIS pirogue and nearly lose a rare relic to a VICIOUS ONE EYED GATOR? I! DON'T! THINK SO MR. MARSMAYUN! YOU SIR ARE THE KING OF FALSEHOODS AND SLANDER!!! That was all outloud, wasn't it? Eh.

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Alright, here we are. Times Picayune want ads. Plenty of apartments for let, guitarists wanted...I'll take those numbers down. Tujague's Cajun restaurant needs a dishwasher. That's low rung, but gettin a foot in the door there could get me a ladder upwards. I know my way around a kitchen. Pere's etouffee recipe is all but tattooed on my chest. There's an idea. Won't hurt to check the chat boards on the Parabnormality group, the Truthy Facts Forum, Kine Society Pinups of the week...

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Aimless and easily distracted, that's your problem Gaspard. Let's find ourselves a library and do this proper, one thing at a time. Hmm, I wonder if Ledgerton Ambrose's book on Alien Artifacts is in yet.

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So, just down the alley is my kind of place; Roux 45 a shop specializing in vinyl records. Mmmmm-hmm. And does this place have all the greats. Blind Lemon, Bessie Smith, Boozoo Chavis, Muddy Waters. Shopkeep is friendly too, goes by Gumbo Sid. Apparently he's a five time all around Gumbo champion and used to play bass guitar back in the day. I don't want to seem like I'm stalking Rene Monroe, but...I'm stalking Rene Monroe. Still no autograph. Dang it. Excuse me, Ma'am, ya'll should look where you're going. I was properly distracted with Mr. Monroe. Whoa, such language! Well, excuuuse me!

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Does strawberry ice cream make a man sober? Couldn't hurt to find out. Mmm, that's fresh all right.

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Here in New Orleans, it's never too early for a drink, and by God I am in need of one if I am to tackle this search. But...what AM I searching for? A job? Friends? Purpose? The answer is (c) all of the above. I will let you in on a little secret, I am not the most...socially "ept" of fellows, as the barkeep and the astoundingly lovely lady beside me will attest to. Where my pick up lines fail, so do fallacious conversations starters such as "I has a fist fight with my landlord this afternoon and won." I blame the whiskey sour.

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Across the street was a psychic's bookshop, the kind of place that's right up my alley. Wouldn't mind working there. Hmm...no one here? Out for brioche, mayhap the smell from the cafe out back would rope me in too. Well, won't hurt to read while I wait. The First Unicorn; a true account by Ledgerton Ambrose. I desperately need this one for my collection, but alas, I'll have to come back when the shop owner is in attendance.

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A man can't do without breakfast, and this little French bistro was just what my rumbling insides needed. I'm a simple man, pleased by eggs and toast, made by a lovely woman. Who, consequently, wasn't interested in serving any further conversation apart from telling me the total of my bill. I also ran into an up and comer by the name of Rene Monroe, a guitarist who lives here in the quarter, so I’d heard. Easy going fellow, but... couldn't get him to chat much or take a picture with him.

Only thing harder than swallowing my pride after that sort of fail was swallowing the overly well done toast.