Getting Back At The Man – Sorta

The First Essential Scary Truth

Tomas, my old partner behind the stick, moved to New Orleans last year. He loves to leave me messages about his (mis)adventures on the streets of the big Easy. Funny enough, they all begin the same way:

“I just bought a beer and I’m wandering around. Why? Because you can drink on the streets of New Orleans.”

Fucker. He’s getting back at the man.  Sorta.

Back in the late 1980’s, you used to be able to drink a beer while wandering the streets of New York as long as the bottle or can was concealed in a brown paper bag. Many an NYU student would sit on the benches in Washington Square or Tompkins Square Park, watching the locals circulate. For those on a tight budget a bar or club wasn’t needed. Even Arizona allowed open containers of beer in cars.

I don’t like to be reminded about the libertarian past I recall so fondly. It used to be a hearty go fuck yourself would be my opening salutation to Tomas when I called back. However, the three days ago, I got my revenge.

I called Tomas on my drive home from a night out. ‘Dude, I’m calling you from my cell. Why? Because I’m getting back at the man,” I gloated.

Of course talking on a cell phone when driving is legal in Arizona. Only the Man and I need to know that piece of information, however