The Ways and Means

I spend a fair amount of time in New Orleans, but in the last decade I was mostly just passing through.  It's been more than 10 years since I went to Jazzfest. I'd been thinking that I was too old to manage the logistical nightmare of flights and hotels and tickets.  I can't remember the last time I port-a-pottied.  

Sometimes, I'm just stupid.  

This year, my buddy Kat and I threw caution and our livers to the wind.  It hit me immediately upon my return. I instantly remembered everything about New Orleans that makes it feel like my hometown--even though I didn't grow up there.  A cupful of the perfect shrimp and grits. Hearing better music on a residential street corner than what's playing on the radio.  Nursing a hangover with chickory coffee and a bloody mary.  The excess and the acceptance.  The freedom from sleep and self-consciousness.  

I'm sorry I neglected you my beloved NOLA.  It won't happen again.

During my absence from the Fairgrounds that host Jazzfest, they started serving Sophia sparkling wine in a can.  I assume, to draw me back in.  Well, it worked.  Taken with my iPhone while surrounded by the light of the hot afternoon sun, and effervescence of bubbles through a straw.  

You all know that she will kill me for posting this right?  Like I'll be dead.  But worth it.

Trombone Shorty at House of Blues.  Taken with my iPhone, while drinking.  Trombone Shorty is talented, sexy, and possibly touring to your hometown.  Check him out.  

I mean, come on.  Mint Julip done right.  Taken with my iPhone right before getting head freeze.  

Fancy shrimp and grits at Kingfish on Chartres.  Taken with my iPhone right before I inhaled.  I will spend the rest of my life chasing the caramelization (is that a word?) on these scallops.  

Late late night at Frenchmen Street in New Orleans.  Taken with my iPhone right before the bar clearing brawl.  (Kat and I were only brawl adjacent, and lifted our drinks off the bar before real disaster struck).