Po
Boy Views
By
Phil
LaMancusa
Lodestar
Or
Pete
and Repeat
So, is this your first weekend of the second week or the
second weekend after your first? Are you walking in with your nose in the air
like a bird dog, sniffing the wafting aromas of the hunka hunka burning love portions
number nine, ten and eleven: “I smell
ribs…gotta go!” Or have you arrived with your nose to the ground like a hound
dog on the trail of beer, barbeque, buddies and blues. Who’s on first?
Your look is familiar; don’t I know you from
anywhere? Haven’t I seen your face before? I’m familiar with that wry swan smile,
those Army scout eyes, that sunburned shoulder (you forgot your PF30 again),
that hungry desperate surreptitious tuck and roll glance; that furtive
insecurity, exhibiting the inner knowledge of one who is aware that it’s almost over!
I
know that look of longing love at the end of an affair when you want to devour
everything about your lover, the sights, smells, sounds and spice; the gaseous
miasma of flirting food just beyond your reach; human smells in the air, sweaty
pits, sun tan oils, hair goop, after shave lotion and all of it. That’s true for me also, so, I’m
feelin’ ya; I want to be a sponge soaking everything up about the 2017 New
Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival (Jazz Fest) as well, for I have loved her
and she has loved me back.
Leapin’ Lizards! It’s the second weekend and I’ve got to take it all in, all that I
can absorb! My bucket list: have I had my cochon de lait po-boy; soft shell
crab; pheasant, quail, andouille gumbo; praline stuffed beignet and trout
Baquet? Check list: I’ve had my oysters; at least a half a gallon of strawberry
tea; a huckabuck, café au lait, messy BBQ, spring rolls and Jama Jama; seen and
hugged a dozen people. But it’s not sufficient for this heart of mine, I want
more! What haven’t I had, tried, tasted, begged, borrowed or browsed upon?
What’s goin’ on? Who’s holding out?
I liken it to an affaire
de Coeur; even when strorm clouds roll in, you’re gonna give it your best
shot. Word to your mother: “the worst day
at Jazz Fest is better than the best day any other time of year!” The
anticipation of its (Jazz Fest’s) arrival is like an incoming train bringing
you your lost love; this year I even brought flowers for my first date, I mean,
first day. I live close, so I hear
them, see them, setting up the Fest and it’s music to my ears; the roustabouts
and the tent slingers, beer trucks, sound checks, ice men, Indians and buses
bringing bands.
They open the gates and I’m standing there early, music
fills the air, cooking fires are lit and the grand march and linger begins; seats
are filled, lines are formed, blankets laid and golly, if someone hasn’t
brought a beach ball to bat around! It’s a sensation candy store and the kids
are in charge; there is no sorrow, no grief or pain: it’s Christmas and the
medics have aspirins, Band Aids and armchairs!
I thirst, that’s why I’m here; I’m a wanderer; a high
relater radiator, sweet potato commentator, instigator investigator, nirvana
spectator see ya later alligator man about this ad hoc al fresco percolator,
drinking it all in! Elusive at best; appearing and disappearing, here and there
and hear and left wondering if I was ever here at all. Who did you see? I don’t
know, I saw them all, heard them all, ate and tasted it all and had a ball,
seeing and sawing as much of all as y’all standing tall. Mama, I’m home!
I wax prolific and expansive about my love of this venue,
this time in my life and yours where and when we could come apart together in
peace, music, food and the facilitation of our own standing sitting walking
talking singing quietude of mutual atmospheric melodic meditation, protected
witnesses all.
Sure,
the weather has been hot cold dry wet dusty and muddy; there’s nothing
unexpected in that, I’m down with that, ready Teddy. The mister has sprung a
leak above my head in the Jazz Tent; so,
why do you think I brought this here folding umbrella, just to keep the sun off
me? Well, that too. I’ve also brought cash in small untraceable bills so that when
I get to the front of the line and have exact money (plus tip); I can hit it
with hot sauce and saunter smartly back into the stream of strangers somehow symbiotically
connected to me.
There
are those that think that the tariff it’s too steep; the crowds are at best
congestive, the toilets are an olfactory mugging, the price of the food is up
and the portions are too small. I’m not sure if we’re at the same festival.
Like Arthur Dent, I’ve brought is my towel and openness to whatever will
happen. I shy away from whatever doesn’t suit me at the moment, ready to split
on or stick out the experience coming at me. Whatever, I’m here for the joy of
it all, smiling because it’s happening again for the first time. I’m at the
Jazz Fest again; let me wallow in the wonder, for this too shall pass leaving
another notch on my memory wall.
It’s
the second and final weekend this season and it will soon be over until, if the
universe is willing, next year; there will be so much that will happen to each
of us in the interval until next time, we’ll be older and perhaps wiser when we
meet the Jazz Fest again. May we all take with us the serenity and tranquility
that we’ve had with this uplifting and exciting time. After while, crocodile.
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