I'm a tourist in my own life, part one: Mardi Gras at Popeyes Chicken

So yesterday, being Mardi Gras and all, I decided to go to Popeyes for lunch. It's the best I could come up with, as not many places around here serve anything remotely Cajun or NOLA -- not even gumbo.

We are definitely among the cuisine-challenged out in this part of the world, which, like most suburbs is home to every freaking chain under the sun, including the Jimmy Buffet-owned Cheeseburger in Paradise (a perfect fit of franchise ad fan base) and a Disney version of Irish pubs, the Claddagh.

Sure, there are lots of Mexican places, too, and Asian ones, and Italian ones and even a few sushi bars. But mostly it's bland. Bland is what people want in suburbs I guess.

Popeyes, though, felt sad, like most second-tier franchises do, a little run down and neglected -- which was pretty much how I felt yesterday anyway on another gray Tuesday in Illinois in February.

I had a bowl of jambalaya and some red beans and rice and lots of hot sauce. The beans coated my throat like some weird sort of cough syrup I couldn't shake, but otherwise it was an adequate meal. The other customers seemed enamored of the chicken strips, which hardly seemed a proper lunch for the holiday.

But it's Mardi Gras is just another Tuesday in Illinois. So I stared at the cheap purple, green and gold decorations on my Popeyes table wishing I was at a bar, drinking a hurricane, making fun of tourists showing their boobs for beads.

Then I went back to work and farted away the rest of the afternoon working on a story about an art exhibit I probably won't ever see.

At night I forgot a password to an Internet account -- it was that kind of day. Ever tried to call AOL? It's fun to talk with a computer voice. And online, the Java script sent would lock up my machine.

Two hours later, I remembered, which was a relief for my hypochondriac mind. Then I was bummed again because that's really all I had to occupy my time last night, trying to figure out the lost password (on the elliptical trainer at the gym, no less).

Today I lunched for another holiday, Chinese New Year and a Chinese buffet. I wasn't going to let the start of Lent get in the way of that. (Yeah, like I have ashes on my forehead. Like that wasn't the freakiest day of a young Catholic's life, having a guy rub dirt on your head and remind you you came from ashes and will one day return to the mud.)

I even wore a red shirt and red underwear for good luck, just like they said you should do on the news radio piece.

It was a nice time. Ran into a guy who claimed he used to do coke with the current governor of Illinois back in the day. Met the owner, who was chipper, as she was marking her husband's birthday. Her dead husband -- he died from cancer last November.

More journalists should eat at such places. It's where you find the better stories.

Anyway, there are a couple more sort-of holidays coming up, Valentine's Day and St. Patrick's Day. I figure out things to distract me on days of forced conviviality (sometimes giving into the fray).

I'm giving blood Feb. 14. Ain't that romantic?

Still deciding what to do about the Irish thing. Maybe I'll pretend I'm another ethnicity and act out their stereotypes. Or I could just listen to some music. I'll let you know.