I’ve lived in New Orleans for a long time. A couple more years, and I’ll have been here for the better part of my life. But you know what’s funny? You know what I just realized today?
Can you keep a secret?
Okay, come closer.
Closer!
Now, lean down…
I’ve never been to Jazz Fest. Never.
Nor, might I add, do I plan to go in the future. Granted, with a couple of beers in me, I can be persuaded to do almost anything, but Jazz Fest would probably require a six-pack…. Actually, streaking requires a six-pack. Jazz Fest would probably be more like a 12-pack and a bottle of Xanax. The good kind.
I think part of it is that I’m not much of a live music fan. Crappy, lip-synched shows by Peter Murphy and Orbital cured me of my concert jones while I was still in hot pants and eyeliner. Another part of it is the crowd: those who know me and who’ve seen me march shoulder-to-shoulder with the Society of Ste. Anne on Fat Tuesday might find it hard to believe, but I’m vaguely agoraphobic.
Mostly, though, the reason I don’t go is because of the type of people Jazz Fest attracts. Hawaiian shirts. Tie-dyed shorts. Panama Jack straw hats paired with receding hairlines and graying ponytails. You know what I mean. I’m sure they’re nice and all, but I’d rather observe them from a safe distance. By which I mean, on the evening news.
And while I’m on the subject: will someone please explain the Neville Brothers? I am so lost on that one.
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