I see myself sitting at the bar,

* make us famous

just past the gaudy television displays, scrolling show names expired months ago and months from now.

I am having an out-of-body experience. I wish I could say that I’d never be caught dead inside Bamboulas, but I know I’ve been guilty of that crime on more than one occasion, so I can’t exactly say for certain whether it was me or not. I was pretty sure that I was standing across the street smoking a cigarette, but there I was: enjoying a beverage at the bar with a washboard that I don’t even own. Maybe I’d stolen it since last I saw myself. Was I a victim of quantum entanglement, or was it something more sinister? The friends I was with confirmed my suspicions. I have a doppelgänger.

On one hand, I could rest comfortably in the knowledge that any terrible thing I do in this city can be blamed on my doppelgänger. On the other hand, any terrible thing my doppelgänger does in this city can get blamed on me. So in the interest of karmic retribution, to my doppelgänger I say this: stop biting my style, man. Seriously, stop doing it. You look way too similar to me to dress the same, that beard makes you look like a douchebag, your hat looks stupid on you, and you should cut your hair, you damned hippie.

I mean, come on. I look this way because I’m basically one payday away from being homeless. You’re a successful washboard musician, playing to the dinner crowd at a venue more suitable to an amusement park’s depiction of what New Orleans might sort of look like if it weren’t for crackheads.

It’s not an unreasonable request. Ok, maybe displacing Bamboulas is outside the realm of your capability, but seriously, stop biting my style. But could you wait until after Mardi Gras? Just in case I do something terrible that I’ll need to blame on you.