Yeah, I remember MY first beer too...

We got to talking about school field trips the other day. Living in Baltimore, America's Greatest City*, we are close to terrific places for schoolchildren to visit as part of their academic enrichment*. Sixth graders used to go to Williamsburg, VA, for what is for many the first time they have slept away from the watchful eyes of their parents. I don't know if they still do this.

Nor do I know if journalism students go to New York for the School Paper convention held at Columbia University, and who knows if the 8th graders go to Washington DC anymore?

I remember the trip to Williamsburg very well, and I bought a paisley tie at the Columbia bookstore that I still wear, and the trip to DC was fun too. I always loved the Smithsonian Museum and all the cool stuff they show.

Speaking of being shown stuff in DC, say hi to Michael Comeau, erstwhile principal of Holy Family School in Louisiana. I say erstwhile, because he just resigned his position, about 12 seconds before he was going to have a can tied to him.

On Friday morning last at 0220 hours, District Police responded to the Archibald Gentlemen's Club for a report of “an intoxicated man refusing to pay his bill,” according to report in The Advocate.  Arriving police found Comeau “standing in the roadway, refusing to move.”

The popo asked the drunk principal time after time to get out of the street, but he was having none of it (he had already had plenty of something else). So they popped him on charges of public intoxication and possession of an open container.  All this took place within a mile of the White House, that well-known bastion of rectitude and clean living.

Back home in Bayou Country, the Diocese of Baton Rouge confirmed the incident, but took pains to point out that all the students were in their hotel rooms being supervised by chaperones while the principal was getting shafahzed in a nudie bar.

We were foolish enough to go to Williamsburg a few years ago during spring break week, meaning that we wound up in a hotel with dozens of testosterony and estrogenified 14-year-olds. One poor chaperone told us they had to take shifts sitting in a chair in a hallway, lest young Rupert gain entrance to Priscilla Mae's chambers as the clock struck 2.

I can't speak for (ex)Principal Comeau, and I don't know what he will tell his family when he gets back in LA, but I know this much for sure: the kids on that trip will have a story to tell their children's children's children.