Jazz Fest, Part One

I think I should tell you something, right at the top, before you've even decided whether to read this or not, which is that I'm afraid I might have had too good of a time last week to be able to write properly at the present time. I feel there's a good chance this week I might have trouble using regular words, because of all the deeply silly things I have engaged in quite recently. And, by the way, Jazz Fest was swell this year.

I'm referring, of course, to the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival, which I attended half of last weekend (you could attend the second half today -Friday, May 2^nd- - if you're resourceful enough.) My experience has been that that is probably a good idea. I've been lucky enough to get down there every now and then -perhaps eight or ten days spread out over a couple of decades -and I've never had a bad day yet.

The fun starts before you even leave, too, because it's great to be going for a change instead of not going and hating the ones who are (like usual.) It feels nice to be on the receiving end of all that hared every once in a while.

Then there's the obvious advantage of being anywhere else other than here, the most obnoxious, rainy-snowy-sleeting what-the-hell pain in the neck weather location practically in history apparently so who would ever want to go to New Orleans (which was, as it turned out, beyond perfect and sublime in every regard: sunny, cool, and comfortable, and,... well, it's just there, it's not here, and it's just so riveting in its total foreign there-ness. I like it.

Did I mention the food and the music? Well, they had food and bands. It was cool. (Why did I return? Why?)

I knew this would be a good one at the airport when one of my music biz friends got searched and detained at one of the security points. It's always heartening to see one of your friends get in trouble -for one thing, it improves your own odds -so I was already in a really good mood.

I know the next thing you're going to want to know is, what was Mrs. Kelp- my gently floating, flaffling fashion faun, the light, the way, woot, lawdey -Mrs. K! -wearing, and I'm sorry that I cannot divulge that at this time, except to say that it was exceptionally tight and revealing, making me think from time to time, hubba hubba, that's no parka!

Many bands play at this thing -about 50 a day, on ten different stages, most of them with ties to the area, but lots from far away as well -and it's hard to resist the temptation to try to see them all for thirty seconds each. I started off with this method, but my group to a man forsook me once my planning got out of control on day 4 (some quite angrily, with great swearing and gnashing of teeth.)

Again, I fed off their hatred. Here's my analysis:

Thursday: Got there about an hour late, so missed the first round, and started with a dumb cover band (actually, the only cover band I've ever seen at the Fest, and not the only bad advice I got from the local critic's picks) in whacky costumes called Bag of Donuts, only to find out later that we plainly should've been watching the Wild Tchoupitoulas instead. We stopped the bleeding at the Gospel Tent, of course, with the Friendly Five Gospel Singers (the first rule of the Jazz Fest is, when in doubt, go to the Gospel Tent, which is usually both more rocking and less populated than the rest.

From there we cruised Kenny Neal, who started with a clueless medley of “I'm Ready” and “Little Red Rooster” that had us heading for the aisles in no time, just in time (after our first helping of Crawfish Monica) to catch our first major find, the Hackberry Ramblers, a cajun group who have been together for seventy years. At least two of the “boys” are in their nineties, and they were rough-hewn and personable as they sang my favorite line of the Fest: “I wish I had died as a baby” (which sounds particularly disingenuous coming from these guys.) They also played the funniest cover- “Proud Mary”- and instigated the first of many outbreaks of the dreaded Public Radio Boot Dance.

Then we crossed back over to the Blues Tent to see Big Al Corson, who was large in every respect, again via the Gospel Tent, then crossing back again (we were rookies, and made lots of needless crosses on the first day; by the end we had those pretty much eliminated) to catch a few songs of Austin's Tish Hinojosa, who was quite good albeit relatively refined.

And that did it for the first half of the first day (continued-)

The Stink of Spring

This stinks.

Only yesterday I was totally primed to have a glamorous day off -a day of leisure -after yet another terrible week of cold, rain, and sporadic disturbing work-like rustlings, when the Mrs. -the one and only true Mrs, my Light of Lights, the Spiritual Devourer of My Every Sentient Impulse (not to mention a bodaciously appealing slice of Ultra-Womanhood) -suggested that it might not be a bad idea for me to take the Kelp kanines out for a brisk trot around the Manor.

I've never liked poodles, or exercise, so it took me some time to warm to the idea, but in no time at all I found myself stuffing them into their little sweaters and setting out over the moors, with the little jerks yapping at my heels. It's a supremely humbling experience, and no real man much likes being seen with toy poodles -especially not fluffy pinkish-white ones with those little balls cut on their ankles and tails, and especially not when they have names like Mitzi and Bitzi; fortunately for my self-respect, the other one is named Evil Roy Slade, even though his disposition is in fact almost identical to that of Mitzi and Bitzi.

I couldn't help noticing on our tour of the neighborhood that more of it seemed to be under water than usual, and I determined to check the basement on our return to the Manor to make sure nothing had gone awry. Alas, on inspection I found the basement quite badly flooded, and the heat and hot water turned off as a result.

Immediately I called the oil company, who sent someone out who informed me that there was no way he'd be going anywhere near our basement until the standing water had been removed -something about not wanting to get electrocuted, he said (wuss!) So I spent much of the day alternately shivering and bailing out the basement, which remained quite completely full of water despite my best efforts.

Today I started the day needlessly early by buying a submersible pump, which is still pumping away as we speak, having made only minimal progress on reducing the water level in the last ten hours or so, and so I am hunkered over my computer, frozen, with icicles hanging from my nose and eyebrows, enjoying spring.

A few hours ago I borrowed a little space heater from one of the neighbors, which worked fine for about five minutes before it blew a fuse; and unfortunately, the fuse box is in the flooded basement, and I'm sure Mrs. K would not want me taking any chances trying to change the damn thing with a half foot of water still covering everything.

Still, this is our second night of no heat or hot water, and I'm starting to get a little edgy. Unfortunately, the oil guy seemed quite put out with me for asking him to risk life and limb so Mrs. K could wash her hair, so I don't think we'll be trying him again tonight. It is really cold though -the poodles are turning blue. Actually, I guess that's the silver lining, as it's really the first use I've found for a toy poodle: they seem to make serviceable thermometers. Who knew?

Spring indeed; I hate my life.

Wait, I think my bride is summoning me... you wait here...

Well, OK, I'm back, and the heat is back on now, too, thanks to Mrs. K. encouraging me to stop being such a wuss and wade in there and push the damn re-set button (which I did after donning every piece of rubber or rubber-like clothing I could find -stylin'!), and now we're back up and running and starting to thaw and maybe now I can write my damn column.

Yeah, right.