The tradition of the JazzFest Indians. I don't know much about it. But it's cool no matter how you frame the tradition of the display.

The tradition of the JazzFest Indians. I don't know much about it. But when they march by, everyone pays attention.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Anyone who knows New Orleans knows the Indians. I won't claim to understand the traditions of the Indians. But they are astonishingly beloved and always sought out doing the circuit around the Jazz Fest fairgrounds. Like everyone else that attends, I took a few pics of my faves. Hope you enjoy seeing them second-hand half-as-much as I did on Sunday. Rock on.

A strong Indian, in full pose.

A strong Indian, in full pose.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

Marching to a powerful, communal beat.

Marching to a powerful, communal beat.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

A proud young Indian.

A proud young Indian.
Originally uploaded by emaggie

The burn's not nearly bad enough to keep me from typing a good review.

Like most of New Orleans, I spent yesterday at JazzFest. The day was absolutely perfect - near 80 degrees, humidity unusually low around 60%, not a cloud in a true blue sky. One day tickets run way spendy - $50 at the door. But it couldn't have been better timed for the last day of the Fest to enjoy such delightful aesthetics. I saw a few great acts (The Raconteurs surprised me by rocking wholly without pretense, the Mahalia Jackson tribute was powerful and touching especially when Irma Thomas was on the stage, everyone is still raving about the varied and extended gatherings of Nevilles and Santanas). The food and beer were great. Walking around today you can see all degrees of sunburn. Thankfully only my forearms took a hit. I won't say that I'd come back just for JazzFest. But after a day like yesterday, I might think about it.

From the campaign trail I see nothing but overstated understatements. Obama on "Meet the Press" yesterday was lackluster, Hillary on "This Week" was equally uninteresting. They're just tired. And we're just tired of them. Yet I'll offer one small volley toward Hillary's minions - this mailer from Hillary sent to folks in Indiana and North Carolina is meant to attack Obama's stance on guns.

Only problem is that the photo on the mailer is doctored (reversing a 60s-era German-made Mauser to make it appear that it is a left-handed gun). Small point, maybe. But not only does that "sportsman's gun" not exist, if it did it would go for over two-grand. Or as I prefer to think of it - at least one individual tax rebate check ($600) plus a tax holiday benefit where you'd need to buy 7609 gallons of gas between Memorial Day and Labor Day (saving $.184/gallon). Snark snark. You're welcome.

Hope your own sunburns comes with good memories today. Rock on.

Baby steps into Bywater

With much preview notice and little actual information, today was my first scheduled day to do something with Habitat for Humanity here in New Orleans. Jimmy Carter's coming in a week for the start of one of those marquee events when everyone wields at the very least a hammer, if not tremendous self-satisfaction. But for me? Work in an out of the way warehouse, teamed with two other out-of-towners, a three-legged-dog and a single employee that wanted nothing more than to shut up shop and head to JazzFest ("Steel Pulse plays at 3, and I'm so out of here before then.") Not to mention that a true thunderstorm front bore down on the City starting around an hour before our designated "start time" for "work". I'd planned to walk there. I decided to take a cab to expand my carbon footprint while avoiding an accidental drowning. My friendly cabbie asked lots of questions, all with a disbelieving tone seemingly meant to echo a belief that I was either lost or should be questioned further for heading to said address. I finally convinced him that I had the right address, which as it turns out lies in an interesting arty neighborhood known locally as Bywater. Bywater is actually in the Ninth Ward, but it didn't suffer much flooding at all during the post-Katrina period (or "post-K", as I've seen it termed here in the Times-Picayune - a great paper, by the way). The warehouse was a well-organized tangle of stuff torn out and donated by builders to Habitat for Humanity. So well-organized, as a matter of fact, that there was nothing for us to do. Except talk for a while about what it's like to be on the opposite end of the PR spectrum from the Musician's Village, or Bradgelina, or anything dealing with new showcase construction projects. What you have in the ReStore is a place for people to get greatly reduced prices on generally good but somewhat ramshackle items. Some cherries were in the mix - the employee pointed out a brand-new kitchen stove that "some a**hole" donated that was nicer than our own back in Seattle. McMansion upgrade, we mutually surmised. But all snark aside, it was mainly an operation that amazingly facilitates building supplies needed at a cut-rate for those that couldn't otherwise afford a renovation.

There was nothing for me to do. I thought about taking the three legged dog out for a skip around the block. But not even Tripod (not his real name) wanted to venture into the rain. One couple eventually came and walked around the aisles of windows, screens, doors, cabinets, tiles and random crap. They thanked us and left. Pretty soon I ran for coffee and a cinamon roll on a drive-by recommendation from my cabbie for a great neighborhood bakery at the corner of Spain and Chartres Streets. The crowd in the cafe was decidedly arty. And conversant. White. But, hell, even Jeremiah Wright would have felt at home given the energy in the room. I read some of the local paper. Including the Saturday Real Estate section that features an absolutely astonishing extended listing of transactions they call "Transfers". Broken down by Districts of the City and bordering Parishes, you can see how many homes were bought by whom and for how much. It wouldn't have caught my eye were it not for the prices. $50K was about the norm. A few over $100K. Many around $30K. For homes in a metropolitan area. I don't know enough about it (yet) to judge. But there's a story there that I'd not heard of previously. An exodus. And not a happy or chosen one by hundreds of families, just this week alone.

After a healthy linger, I took my cinamon roll and walked back through the French Quarter toward our hotel in the Warehouse District. I didn't return to ReStore, which is just as well. I was an out-of-towner looking to cleanse my soul in some way. And that doesn't fly when there's JazzFest to get to. Even I can understand that aspect of the local mentality. As I approached the French Quarter, tourists decked out in garbage bag-quality rain slickers festooned with French Quarter street signs began to appear with alarming regularity. I can only imagine how many of those plastic sheets will end up in Louisiana's landfills now that the late afternoon has turned sunny and the forecast is for a number of consecutive days of summery weather. On a different note, I've decided to rent a car one day and drive out to the neighborhoods I know I need to see. Then I've got another Habitat for Humanity volunteer day on Wednesday. JazzFest ends tomorrow, which I hope to attend. Please check back for more observations. Or don't. No worries.

Hope your own days brighten as considerably as the afternoon here has today. Rock on.

Hangin' with Tommy Lee. For a few seconds. Before the Sheriff's Department shoved a beignet in my mouth and put me on a streetcar.

My first impression of New Orleans after arriving this morning is that we ain't seen nothing yet. It's Jazz Fest, which means the city is awash in hipster tourists and alcoholics wandering around the City spilling all over the rarely sighted locals. The areas of the City in lingering disarray are far from the hotel we're staying in and the French Quarter where I've been wandering for a while. I expect I'll see something worth commenting on tomorrow when I head to a first day of volunteer work with Habitat for Humanity. But I do have one scene report. Imagine Jackson Square where Dubya delivered his infamous speech a week after Katrina made landfall. Kitty korner to Cafe Du Monde - the famously necessary visit for any out-of-towner looking for beignets and horrible chickory-flavored coffee. And just across Decatur Street toward the Mighty Mississip in the elevated park with the cannon statue...Tommy Lee from Motley Crue and various sex tapes fame filming something for yet another lame reality show. This time it's about the environment, kids! If ever there was a signal that the ironic debauchery was back home in N'awlins, I think I've just seen it being staged. Personally, I'd prefer to see a thousand frat guys throwing up on each other just a few blocks away along Bourbon Street and then gathering forces to add it all to a compost bin for disadvantaged gardens.

Hope your own fests are equally jazzy today. Rock on.

Beignets, Jazz Fest and tool belts

We're heading on the road again tonight aboard an insane red-eye flight that will eventually get us to New Orleans tomorrow morning. Another work gig for Sarah. I'm going to drive some nails for Habitat for Humanity and check out what the devastation looks like as we approach the third anniversary of Katrina. Expect a bundle of pics and hopefully a few insights. Maya's staying back here in GrungeCity. At a kennel. She's such a trooper.

Hope your own May Day Parade has columns upon columns of hybrid Hummers today. Rock on.