PoBoy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Mona Lisa
Or
Mad Hatter
“I
know we’ve come a long way, we’re changing day to day; but tell me, where do
the children play?” Cat Stevens
Hey you! Yes you! It’s the first week of
Jazz Fest; take a friggin’ break! You’ve had a hell ride of a year so far and
it ain’t gonna get any better any time soon. You’ve been on an in person or
perspective survivor or spectator witness or wounded warrior eyewitness of
fires, floods, tornadoes, blizzards, crashes, terrorist attacks--shot at and
missed; sh*t at and hit ride.
Here
in New Orleans, sometimes but never to be believed, called the Big Easy, we are
beat to the bone with all the disruptive activity bombarding us since we can’t
even remember when. A grotesque level of daily corruption of our psyche
beginning with the cosmic debris of sham elections; worldwide mass slaughters
of innocents for fun and profit; weather sucker punches and persecutions of
have-not citizens and refugees by the so called ‘this is for your own good’ leaders
of the free world. And yes, “Freedom’s just another word for nuthin’ left to
lose”. We’re tired and need a break from all that secular nonsense designed to
impede our spiritual musical evolution. Open the friggin’ gates already!
Cosmic
Debris rains down upon us. That’s why I never miss a day at the track diggin’
the scene at the Jazz Fest; being here feeds the hunger of my soul; it’s the
absence of self; the pilgrim’s wandering from stage to stage, food booth to
food booth, the amnesiacs cone of silence while drinking in pure joy like a
desert marooned reprobate. The sights,
sounds, people and the quail, pheasant and andouille gumbo puts a drunkard’s
smile on my sober as a Buddhist face.
Outside
of these gates is what people call reality; it’s paved with good intentions and
questionable actions that are easy to walk on (no flowers grow though), sidewalks
of disillusion that can numb your senses, streets of wondering about our
sluggish inspirations and how you can catch a cab at this hour out of here. I
find myself hiding from Mardi Gras madness and French Quarter Fest confusion;
waiting until I see those tents start to set up at the Fair Grounds and I
begin, once again to blossom like a celestial lotus.
I
imagine, as work begins behind those fences, The Gospel Tent; The Blues Tent;
The WWOZ Jazz Tent (my personal fave) and the stages large and small perspectively.
I salivate imagining the food booths of yesteryear and the anticipation of any
new culinary adventures to be found this year. And yes, I already have my
tickets.
In
New Orleans and, it seems, the world in general, we go from celebration to
celebration all year; so much so that at
our house we leave (so called) Christmas lights up year round. We’re also those
folks that have a porch flagpole that we change with occasions. Christmas
season has a Santa flag which went up when we took down our Kamala flag,
followed by carnival colors, the famous Sicilian flag, and Jazz Fest flag; we
hang rainbow colors in solidarity and our colored lights are blazing all year
round. We also vie for the most green plants and flowers in our miniscule front
(what we like to call) yard and sidewalk. And if you can miss our house now,
Just look for the ’97 Lincoln Towncar parked out front with the front vanity
plate proclaiming her name DUCHESS. Y’all can stop on by, but we’re probably at
work or enjoying our perpetually deserved cocooning inside.
We’re
New Orleanians through and through; we celebrate life as it goes on here; we
gripe about our city infrastructure shortfalls; we mourn our loses and take
affront to the term BIG EASY. We can swap stories and reminiscences going back
sixty years and more; that’s what we do, we drink and we know things.
However;
nothing floats our boat; puts pep in our step; glide in our slide and wiggle in
our (Jon Batiste) Wobble like the days that we spend at the gate of Jazz Fest
patiently waiting for the line to move at its own beautiful pace. At that
point, shuffling along, grinning like a Cheshire, proud of myself to be doin’
it again, tickets in hand, sporting this year’s Fest shirt and comfortable
footwear. Not only am I glad to be here at the Fest; but, I am tickled that you
made it also. I love all of you Jazz Fest Goons; we’re a tribe, we’re family.
So,
let’s count down: You’ve made sure that you’re not a Sherpa or pack animal for
the duration, right? Nothing clicks our tongue and rolls our eyes more than
someone who is hauling enough stuff to last through a power outage and lock
down. Also on the Eye Rolling Scale (ERS) of one to ten, at about an eight, is
impractical foot wear like high heels or even flip flops (a pure amateur move).
Folks
that seem unaware that it is very possible that they will be unprepared and in
the full sun for hours and will look like Lobster Thermidor by early evening
and are not pre-prepared with sunscreen and some semblance of sensible head and
leg covering rate at about a nine on the scale.
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