Po
Boy Views
By
Phil
LaMancusa
We
See You
Or
the Chosen Few
You walk into the Jazz Fest like you are walking on to a
yacht. You’ve traveled miles, paid a premium, you’re there to take it in, to
absorb; you deserve this. You’re saucy, you’re sassy, you’re sexy. We smile.
You’re
impressed that all this can go on in one place; you rock it up, rip it up,
shake it up, ball it up; you get some fun, sun, mud, food, festivities and
maybe some flirting, you feel fulfilled. Full. Filled. And then you are outside the gates and lo, the party’s still going on! We go on
smiling. Who are we? We live here.
We don’t get here early and stay late, we’re here 24/7;
like I told you: we live here. When you go back home and wish you could stay,
we do. We’re the folks on the porches sipping a cold one watching you dance
your way back to where you stay and are seen smiling. Still smiling. We’re the
guys who wouldn’t live anywhere else. This is our spot, now is our time.
We look forward to Jazz fest all year, every year; we buy
our tickets early, receive residential parking passes and get the local’s
discount on Thursdays. We bitch about the parking, guard our driveways and wait
in longer than average lines at the grocers, restaurants and public
transportation for you to enjoy for a spell what we have full time. We even
pick up the trash you leave, sell you a little something extra on the road and
think y’all are cute as bugs.
We
queue up next to you, behind you with nothing but a small bag and a water
bottle; too much baggage is counterproductive, I say. We’re on a budget, we
only carry the cash we intend on spending (hell, no credit cards); we already
have our posters, apparel and souvenirs from years past, if we want something
else (from this year) we’ll bring extra money tomorrow and get it.
I’m a hiccup away from the action. I’m fortunate enough
to stay mid way between Liuzza’s by the Track and the Fair Grounds itself. I’ve
been in this neighborhood for over a dozen years, have seen people come and go,
I know the merchants, minors, mutts and miscreants, during Jazz fest I go the
whole nine yards as well as the entire eight days. My friends come by and we
stoop, there’s a brass band right outside our front gate, we’re on a first name
basis with the policeman directing traffic; it doesn’t get much better that
this.
We’re also those folks taking tickets, slinging beer,
directing traffic and emptying the cans of used Styrofoam containers (to go
into our landfill) that once held your stuff from food and drink booths, we’re
here at the first aid station, console your lost kids and set up and break down
this whole affair so that all you have to do is come and enjoy.
On the whole this is a pretty quiet neighborhood the rest
of the year with friendly feral felines, a variety of birds, bees, beers,
bubbas and broads; the young, the not so young, the very young. We have cook
outs, second lines, crawfish boils and street festivals, get our kids off to
school and our breadwinners off to bring home the bacon; you know, like people.
We walk our dogs and pick up their poop just like you.
Only, we may have a little more pep in our step, glide in
our stride and a little extra gut in our strut. We smile a little easier, nod
to strangers and neighbors alike; we’re not shy about talking to each other or
you, there are no strangers here, only us strange folks that go about our lives
and look forward to that time of year when we see the tents going up and the
sounds of setting up that is music to our ears.
Of course no bed of roses is complete without the thorns
and by no means is this utopia, but we get along and look out for each other,
you know, like neighbors. We celebrate each new addition to families
(especially critters) and mourn our loses; we gossip, fret, complain and
console; we shop locally, go to fish fry’s at the church and walk up to the
bayou to chill on fine southern weather days.
We’re also the ones who feel it the most deep when they
threaten to cancel Jazz Fest
No comments:
Post a Comment