The music thumped on and on, late into the night.  Donald and I laughed ourselves silly last night, making jokes about the raccoons, the music, the pigs, and our potential safety.  He equated the raccoons with pigeons in a park and we made sure to lock our basement latches so the little guys couldn't break in.  The music was completely indiscernible as to type but seemed to us to be the same four base notes reverberating regardless of which song.  Even better was someone who felt compelled to scream "Aaaaaiiiiiiieeeeee" every couple of minutes.  She was apparently a bigger fan of the music than we were.  Thankfully we can all sleep through just about anything and so have no idea when the guitars were unplugged and everyone stumbled home.

The campground is not any better this morning.  I think it is actually worse in the daylight.  The grounds are covered in trash and cigarette butts.  Really.  It looks like someone tipped over a dumpster and let the wind take its course, which goes a long way to explaining the raccoons.  It's an all-you-can-dig-through buffet out for the little buggers.  If you happen to be on I-10 and you think the Jean Lafitte campground sounds like a pirate-y, historical place to stay the night, I advise you to keep going at a high rate of speed.  The good side is that I did find 17 cents that someone thoughtfully left for me.  We are sticking around here just long enough for Donald to make his special pancakes and to readjust our spare tire.  Then we are out of here.