As usual, I owe a tip of the cap to my ubiquitous friend Theresa for giving me the fancy schmancy moleskin notebook in which I take the copious notes I later use to write these posts. By the way, every day some festival-goer sees me writing notes and asks me what I'm doing. I'm running out of snappy answers to their questions.
Getting here involved the usual humanity-eroding airport experience, of course. I'm sure within the next five years TSA will just start parading armed guards up and down the airport hallways, strip searching babies and 95 year olds at random. To protect the public. Even worse than the overall authoritarian climate prevailing at American airports, an airline trip, particularly one on Southwest, subjects one to a Lord of the Flies-style devolution where one fights against one's fellow travelers just to get to one's destination. You have to evaluate people in security lines when choosing which one to enter. Do they have a bunch of 80 year olds, little kids, and Utah residents who haven't flown in a plane since 2001? Will they have to be told every single rule, each step along the way, 15 times just so they can make it through security? Or do they look like they are reasonably capable of following the very well known process? At the same time, you're pushed, prodded, and herded through lines, inspections, pat downs, x-rays and surveillance. Its like crossing through Checkpoint Charlie. Once you board a Southwest flight, you lose even more of your humanity as you try to decide where to sit. Which available seats would force you to sit next to someone "unacceptable" and which ones have "tolerable" seat mates? You know. Is your neighbor going to ooze over onto you, take the wrong seat belt, smell, regale you with kid stories worse than a waterboarding experience, or sicken you with a hacking cough, sneezing fit, or appalling personal habits? In a split second time, you have to decide whether you'll be safe during your flight sitting next to the person before you. Its like you're Simon Cowell, except you're deciding whether people meet your standards. Or deciding whether its safe to move to a particular neighborhood. Women of course have the added headache of deciding whether some random dude who looks like his wife let him out of her sight longer than 20 minutes for the first time in five years is going to work his sweet moves on her throughout the flight. Of course, if you're one of the first ones on the flight, you have to master these same skills AND direct your perfect human death stare at unacceptable co-passengers who look tempted to join you. You have to Jedi mind trick them into moving on: "These aren't the seats you're looking for." This all inevitably creates an atmosphere of suspicion, intolerance, and prejudice. Kind of like the mall at Christmas. Only after you successfully exit security at your destination do you regain some modicum of humanity. That's why I try to drive whenever I can.
The Dallas flight was pretty much the usual for a Wednesday morning, but the New Orleans flight was, as usual, an odd mix of business types and people my age attired in their festival gear. No sight has worn on me worse than 58 year old guy and his buddies, attired in Tommy Bahama casual and flip flops that their wives bought them, draped over their enormous guts, with their oddly matched designer straw hats to cover their Red Spot of Jupiter bald patches. The combination of early retirement packages and a Jimmy Buffett concert appearance can only spell doom. I'm sure their wives enjoy the respite from the the gin and golf lifestyle, but honestly, you need to flee for your life if you hear Jimmy Buffett is coming to your town. Those attractive, newly "old" couples you see in late night medical products ads? Yeah, put those guys in Tommy Bahama, give them a cord to keep their glasses from falling off their heads, and that's what will invade your town along with Jimmy B.
I'm staying at the Prytania Park Hotel for the first time. Its like a glorified LaQuinta, without the Denny's or IHOP next door but with somewhat nicer furnishings. Most importantly, its outside the CBD and the French Quarter, so its easy to get in and out and they don't charge for parking. Almost every New Orleans hotel charges $30-35 per night for parking. In five days that's almost like another night's room stay. Its located next to several good restaurants, and a Walgreens, all within walking distance. After checking in, I ran on the St. Charles streetcar line after getting here and after enjoying yet another good lunch at New Orleans Hamburger and Seafood Company. It was still relatively cool here, thanks to overcast skies that earlier had dropped some rain on the town, but the humidity was still brutal. Four miles felt like seven back in Austin. It always takes me a few days to adjust.
After getting cleaned up I went toward town to enjoy the YLC Wednesday at the Square concert, featuring Marcia Ball and the Pinettes Brass Band. The Young Leadership Council sponsors a spring-time concert series on Wednesdays in Lafayette Square near the federal courthouse. This is one of the city's oldest public areas, and contains some lovely shade trees and statues, among the taller buildings that surround it. The New Orleans Saints provide the primary sponsorship funds, and their erstwhile future owner Rita Benson LeBlanc hosted along with several Saintsations, a guy in a dog costume and Saints uniform (for some unexplained reason), and a "co-host" dressed like Rodney Dangerfield in Caddyshack (but sounding like someone from the RuPaul's Drag Race). The Pinettes are a local woman-only band, playing tomorrow at the Festival. Not quite as aggressive and dynamic as some of their male counterparts, but maybe that's the point. Long tall Marcia Ball once again did not fail to entertain. I've seen her over 10 times now, and can't remember a show that wasn't high energy, fun, and rollicking. Despite all the years and all the mileage, she seems to enjoy playing and always delivers a good show. Something that one can't say about most acts. Ms. LeBlanc's act, however, was somewhat bewildering. One may recall that her father, Tom Benson, had for some time designated her as the presumptive "heir" to the franchise, and she had assumed many of the day-to-day owner's responsibilities. He recently relieved her of this role, however, amid rumors that, well, basically everyone hated her. After Marcia already had been introduced and played her first song, she insisted on coming out and doing some very odd second introduction, replete with humblebragging about the Saints' role in funding the whole affair. She then went off on some tangent about people having sex in the "bush" nearby. Then she shot t-shirts out of a cannon at the crowd. Then, they finally let Marcia resume her performance. Now, bear in mind, this happened on a day when (1) the league handed down severe penalties to four current and former Saints players for participating in a "bounty" scheme to injure opposing players, which they actively sought to conceal from the league's investigators, and (2) one of the finest human beings and most skillful man ever to play professional football, Junior Seau, died by his own hand. You would think the representative of Saints' ownership might have a little more dignity on a day like today. I understand the crowd was looking to have a good time, but, really, I'm not sure today was the day for that act.
I had dinner at a new seafood restaurant, Superior Seafood. Its owned by the same group that owns the Superior Grill mexican restaurants that started in Shreveport and later opened in Baton Rouge and New Orleans. Its located right next to Fat Harry's (no doubt to the chagrin of a certain resident of Charlottesville, VA I know). Its in the style of a Parisian bistro, or of a Brennan's restaurant-tile, curtains, mirrors, wood moldings, metal bar. I had Redfish Marigny (sauteed with lump crab and a lemon butter sauce), with haricot verts and fingerling potatoes. It was small but quite good.
As I walked around the corner to enter the restaurant, it was impossible to avoid walking past a couple who appeared roughly my age, arguing about something. She looked quite attractive, while he looked like he sells pre-owned Saabs. Actually the guy was repeatedly saying "I would never do that!" as the woman, hands firmly on hips, stared daggers at him. Ah, true love! Nothing like confronting your significant other about his cheating ways or some other equally heinous offense on a public street next to a busy bar and restaurant. Was this some sort of yuppie "Jersey Shore"? Well, whatever he did, I assume she drove him to it. Signed, every woman I ever told about an argument I had with a girlfriend whose immediate response was "what did you do?"
Well, ok, this was pretty dark. Sorry for bringing everyone down. I promise to return to happiness, joy, and love tomorrow.
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