the sun is shining, we just can't see it.

Sooo...today I went to my first New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, aka., Jazzfest. It costs between $40 and $50 bucks a day, depending upon how lazy one is (advance v. @ the gate) and so I had some decisions to make. I went today as opposed to Friday and Saturday, Friday being the first official day, because today my all-time favorite living jazz performer was going to be there. I *can't even begin* to tell you how excited I was when I first found this out. I've tried to see her in NYC so many times it's disgusting. She was always in Paris. Always. No, I'm not kidding. I wish I were. I have somehow managed to catch Branford Marsalis at the Village Vanguard and lesser names at Small's, before it kept closing intermittently, but I could never catch a break, not even a little bit, w/Cassandra Wilson.
(Oh, and just a little real-time update...our boys are, at this very moment, up by 10 over the Mavs at the beginning of the 4th quarter in game 1. IN Dallas! And Dallas just committed a shot-clock violation. HAH!!)

But so anyway...I pack up for Jazzfest and I will just go ahead and remark upon how well-prepared I am. *strutting* Mostly because of this. I had a fold-up chair (thanks Kate!) and in a small bag I put my camera and some TP in separate Ziploc bags, a jacket in case it got cold, and some extra Ziplocs...for what?...just in case. Oh, and a towel. I brought a towel. Oh, and at the last minute I threw in my sunglasses. Yeah, right.

On S. Broad it went in a matter of seconds from not raining at all to a torrential downpour. Like car-flooding, people-start-pulling-over torrential downpour. And I will just point out, this *is* New Orleans so, um, the standards for those sorts of things are actually quite a bit higher here. Just sayin'. But I am unfazed. I happen to love the rain. So not only am I not-fazed I'm actually ecstatic. In fact, I can't think of anything at all I'd rather be doing than seeing Cassandra Wilson In-The-Rain. And I'll just go ahead and mention this now, b/c I didn't know until after I got home buuhhttt...we were under a flash flood watch. Well, ahem, that explains *a lot*.


(And because Blogger can't seem to upload a photo in under an hour tonight, I'll just note that the Hornets WON!! 97-84 Sweet!!!)

But I am getting ahead of myself. The torrential downpour, surprisingly, actually made it harder to park. But after much looking I eventually found a space deep in the residential confines of my beloved Midcity (b/c that's where my ethnic fam settled and lives still. No worries, if I stay here someday I will live there.) But so I'm sitting there in my car, surveying things, making sure I have everything, stowing away keys in the Very Safe zipper pocket of my bag, when it occurs to me: Dude, you should *write down* where you've parked. Yes, I should. And normally where I write things is on my hand. But given the weather situation that's not really gonna serve the purpose. So I set aside a piece of paper, get out of the car (without, I'll just note, soon to be installed raingear) to hunt for probably non-existent street signs when, lo, who do I run into (almost literally) but The Shirtless Guy Who Can't Find His Car. He blurts, a little panicky, "I can't find my car!" I'm really sorry, man. And I am Proud.Of.Myself. Strangely, there are *two* street signs on that very corner. I get back in my car, well and evenly drenched, and write things down. And I put that piece of paper in a Ziploc bag, lemme tell you. Because I sure as shit don't wanna be That Guy.

I put my bag over my back, my chair over my bag, open my umbrella and I'm off. In ahbouutt 5 minutes I am soaked. S'aight, I am so happy to be going to Jazzfest (something I've dreamed of since I was wee) and to be seeing Cassandra Wilson (something I've dreamed of since the first time I listened to New Moon Daughter in its entirety...circa 1996) that I really just Do.Not.Care. Not even a little bit. I mean, can I just tell you, I am grinning *from ear-to-flipping-ear*. I can't stop. I am aware that I probably look a little touched, as they say in my homeland.

And I'm bopping along through Midcity and I see some people out on their porch. And we exchange glances and I keep going. But I was thinking, "I should get them to take a before-picture." So I go back. And I can tell they're like, um, why is that "special" person coming back? I hope it's not to talk to us... And also, I mean, people, it is *POURING*. And I walk up, having removed (hopefully) all remnants of grinning from face, and say, "Um, I know this is a silly request but would you mind taking my picture?" And I can tell then that they are a little frightened, that they're now thinking, 'Oh God!!, Now the special person wants us to take her picture!'


But they say yes and I'm explaining that it's my first Jazzfest and that I'm super-psyched, and that I live here, which is in large part why I'm now able even to go to Jazzfest, etc., etc., and they ask where I live and what I do. And I tell them. And then one of them says, "Thank you for moving here." And I'm floored. I mean, I am and I'm not. That sentiment has been expressed to me a couple of times since I've been here, but it's just been kind of implied. No one has ever said to me, Thank you for moving here. And I said, "Don't thank me. I *love* it here. There's nowhere else I'd rather be, actually." And I explained how after the storm I thought seriously about quitting my then-job and moving here and doing construction and just making the best of a bad situation. And then the guy who's taking my picture asks me what my last name is. 'That is an odd question,' I think. And I tell him my last name. And he looks confused. And I see he's looking at my shirt. And I get it, all the sudden. Because I'm wearing my "Italians Do It Better" shirt. (Because they do.) And I say, "Oh, but my real last name is Casalvieri. My dad only changed it because he was discriminated against as an Italian. He was the first-born son of Italian immigrants." At which point this guy says, "OH, well, Alright Then! And my name is [Italian last name 1] and this is [Italian last name 2] and [Italian last name 3] and (the woman who thanked me) [Italian last name 4]." And I should have known, given that I was in Midcity. And given how all of these people were both very good-looking and very friendly. And then he explained to me how most of the Italians in New Orleans are Sicilians b/c in the early 1900s there was a severe drought in Sicily and a lot of those immigrants came here (instead of staying in NYC) b/c here the climate is much more Mediterranean. I thought about pointing out that it might also be b/c here is not a place where one would ever be in danger of a severe drought. But I refrained.

And the next thing I know this quasi-elderly man [Italian last name 3] is asking me if I'm hungry. Yes, as a matter of fact I am. I have not yet eaten today. And he proceeds to tell me exactly The Best Place To Eat At Jazzfest. And lord almighty was he right. Because of course I didn't not follow his advice. Of course I didn't. He tells me not only where to go and precisely how to get there, he tells me what to order. So, eventually, later than I wanted but you've seen a bit of what I'm up against already,



I get myself to the Prejean's booth and I order, per his instructions, the andouille gumbo and the stuffed mushrooms. Holy Shit!! That was G-O-D, Good, lemme tell you. And I'm *totally* going back when I go next weekend.

So we do everything but hug, kiss, and exchange digits and I leave. And by this time it's just a steady even downpour. And by the time I get to the gates it's almost a drizzle. I get in the Fairgrounds and am a little taken aback. You see, the track and its lower environs are now a nice, egg-shaped river. Hmm. Interesting. Oh well. At least there's that nice orange bridge to help us all out...


And I shit you not, I'm not making this up, b/c why would I, really?, as I'm coming in I hear Irma Thomas singing "It's Raining."


As can be seen, she's on the main stage. And she's singing it's raining. And people are *Get-Ting Down*, lemme tell you. I mean, it's funny. It really is just funny.


I worm my way closer and stop. And ascertain. And take it all in. So this is Jazzfest. This is what compares to all those long-imagined images and ideas in my head. Hmm.


It's fucking wet is what it is. This was *not* part of those pictures.

But no one really cares. Seriously. No one *really cares.* I noticed it happening on my way in, actually. That thing. That New Orleans thing. That just freaking taking it in stride. Like no people or place I've ever seen. I mean, *clearly*. These are some people who know How To Take Some Shit In Stride, know whut I'm sayin'?

But what happened then...and what happened with increasing frequency throughout the day...was that everyone was smiling at everyone else. I can't tell you the number of times my flip-flops would be sucking me securely to some random patch of ground--flip-flops+mud=STUCK--and I'd look up and somebody'd be grinning at me and I'd just grin back. And I watched the exact same thing happen to a hundred other people. Or those times when I was thigh-deep in water and the person coming towards me was just grinning their face off, as was I. And don't even get me started on the surprisingly large, heretofore unknown, number of ways One Living Person Can Accidentally Splash Mud On Another Living Person. Seriously, don't get me started. I managed somehow to get mud in *my beer*. It was chest-high. Always. I don't even know how that happened. Dirt still tastes like it did in elementary school, just in case you were wondering.

But back to Irma and It's Raining...the guy who happened to be in front of me after I stopped worming was really enjoying himself. He was dancing and singing and drinking and smoking and chatting with some people around him, but not in an annoying-STFU kind of way. So I arrive and I see him size me up. I'm dancing upon arrival. I am. And before too long he says, "You know, the sun is coming out." And he points up. And I look up and I can see, like, an ever-so-slightly less purple patch of sky. And I look back at him and say, "Maybe." As in, anything's logically possible, man, it's not a round square, sure. But then, veehhrrry gradually, that patch of sky sort of starts to lighten. And grow. And this guy? This guy puts his sunglasses on. And he makes A Big Production of it. There wasn't a person in the 20-foot radius who wasn't aware that this guy was Putting His Sunglasses ON. Seriously. It was ridiculous. And soon he's yelling, "The sun is coming out!! The sun is coming out!!" And people are laughing but it *is* getting lighter. And right then Irma's at the midpoint of her set and she's already been thanking people for coming, it means so much that you're here, it means so much to this city, please come back again, etc., etc. And at a different point she was saying how much she appreciated how goddamn soaked we all were and how we were here anyway. And how that's why she keeps doing this, despite her being "elderly," because she appreciates how much people appreciate her. But at this particular break, right here

she all the sudden says, "I think the sun might be coming out." And this guy??...goes ballistic. I mean, he is jumping up and freaking down. And then, and then, Irma says, "Actually, right now, and all day, the sun *is* shining, we just can't see it."

And I'm *still* thinking about that one. And I think prolly I will be for a while.