Why don't I?

I have friends- male friends- who speak ill of women generally upon every occasion they possibly can. Supposedly, I am to understand that I am an exception. A veritable good woman, as it were. Hear ye, hear ye. Anyhoo, this complaining of theirs causes me to feel sorry for the mooks who've encountered the bad b-word time and again and also to wonder at their judgment.

But then I think- haven't I encountered just as much selfish idiocy in the males I've chosen to involve myself with? Why don't I lump all that is masculine into one sweaty pile and complain about them? And also, shouldn't someone feel sorry for my experiences? And wonder at my lack of judgment? I wonder at my lack of judgment. Hell, I don't think I'm really fit to judge anymore. I shall throw darts at names if choosing ever becomes a necessity again. Could I do worse? Yeppers. Could I do better? I no longer believe I'm capable. Is that growing up or giving up?

Just asking.

Can't have braces AND glasses

Or so I've decided. Mustn't let the nerd factor overwhelm the gorgeousness that is moi. ('Scuze me while I laugh at that... but not because it isn't true, mind you. I am stunning. It says so right here in my daily affirmation. And my daily affirmation never lies. Or at least it won't be lying after I use it thirty times. Or something. I should re-check the directions.) I have put off buying more frames/ lenses because I am bound and determined not to up my weak prescription. Driving at night, you say? I laugh at danger. I need a Looziana license, too, and as God is my witness I will never have a class B restriction again.

Amen. And goodnight. Before I'm off to my "banding appointment" tomorrow. Because there is no justice. I am not an invisalign candidate. Kill me now. Really. I mean a year ago I had several people tell me I looked nineteen. (Of course that was before I changed my eyebrows. Maybe now I look like Morgan le Fay. It is to be devoutly hoped. Betrayal, anyone?) If they are anything close to right, I am going to look like a stupid adolescent. Again. I know I keep complaining about this. And it's already boring, but I'll probably keep it up. Maybe I'll walk around with gunk in my braces trying to see how many people helpfully point it out. It'll be an experiment in human decency. The kindness of strangers and all that.

That's what I'll say anyway, when people point out the gunk in my braces.

And Stir

Went out Saturday night after Jazzfest ended for the day with some old friends from Ohio (and a couple of new ones from I-forget-where.) We ended up at One Eyed Jack's. Just missed Eric Lindell (New Orleans native, funky roots music and a goatee that would've made a Havlicek proud) but noticed him standing around in his blacknwhite slip-on Van's to watch C.C. Adcock perform. (And, yes, I know that picture looks like a pink Jesus.)

Before they started, I chatted to a local p.r. guy who was rambling on about some girl a famous lounge act fella had written a song for years ago. Angelina, I think it was. She had a bubble butt, he said, and bubbles in the front, too. Standing right over there. He showed me a tacky little plastic "cell phone" flask he'd snuck in to doctor his drinks. And I know I'm probably making him sound tacky, too, but he wasn't. He was a straight up and down nawlins citizen- knowledgeable, friendly, easy to talk to. He gave me the history of the band we were about to see (I've forgotten, so don't ask) and told me about a very funny idea he'd had for a line of p.j.'s. And apparently, I gave him an idea for a story he was having a hell of a time publicizing. That's me- the p.r. muse coming up with a notion from my ONE (count 'em) p.r. class in college. Always happy to help strange men ogling other women in deliciously sleazy New Orleans clubs. That's all I've got to say.

Anyway, when they stepped onto the stage, I realized I recognized these fools from the day before at Jazzfest. I'd been walking like a silly person the crowded way (i.e. not around the track, but through the seated/ standing crowd) to hear Cowboy Mouth and Wilco at the end of the day. (And, no, they were not playing together.) I had a huge hat on my head, a little top that was sliding off my shoulders and bag over one of those shoulders with a chair in it. I was taking up way too much space and was very mindful of the chair- wouldn't want to actually hit anybody who was threatening to flatten my too-big hat. As I pushed forward through the crowd, I had my eyes on the ground and saw two pairs of gorgeous cowboy boots. Skinny jeans crumpled just so, red and silver belt, tight and rumpled shirt on one and a jacket on the other. And their faces... well, let me say that the pink Jesus picture doesn't do Mr. Charlie justice. I know I smiled for a second looking into their eyes. Hell, I smirked. I think I even said well done. These were a couple of men who knew the power of image. Had to be performers I thought and I kept going.

So, when they showed up right in front of me at One Eyed Jack's, I had a chance to see what they were about. (Bayou, swamp, alligators, wet heat, decay, alcohol, black, white, voodoo, zydeco, cajun, rockabilly, country, funk, hip hop?, and blues in case you were wondering.) Swamp pop is what they call this stuff. It had me dancing, I mean really dancing, for the first time in a long, long time. Ran to the bathroom at one point and saw her again- the warmest ice queen ever, glowing white. That music made me happy. It was good. Not clean by a long shot, but good. And these kinds of crazy music people are playing constantly in my city.

Oh, it's going to hurt me to leave.

no rest for the wicked

so i am supposed to be sleeping. cuz i'm supposed to drag my friends around for beignets and whatnot at 8 a.m. or so. (who chose that hour?) my house is sparkly clean for more guests arriving tomorrow p.m. i'm ready to go. and i can't. go, that is, to sleep.

i can't decide if this is tragic or not. after all, i'm just going to park my butt in a chair out on the grass in front of various music stages at the jazz and heritage festival. with various trips for food, beverages, and oh, yes, porta potties. (a porta pottie by any other name would be as gross by afternoon. mustn't forget the purell.)

it's supposed to rain and thunder one of the days this weekend. new orleans' rain renounced its amateur status a long, long time ago. mayhap i, and all my companions, will be soaked to the skin. a good day to avoid white, i think. especially since i won't feel like carrying an umbrella. yes, no white.

yes. no. white.

apparently, no sleep either.