when my ear holes need happiness

Anytime I’m at a loss for what to listen to, the “Insecure” soundtracks bring me joy. I’ve been trying to get into the Coachella 2026 artists but issnotworking. At all. For me.

 

when a tipsy stranger hands over her phone and credit card

It was a night the other night.

Walked in the drenching 6pm heat to watch silky smooth Stephen Walker 'Nem. Kid Chocolate played a crisp, sparkling trumpet, a friend sat in on jazz piano. We took a table by the floor-to-ceiling window, close enough to catch cool air, but still on the sidewalk to enjoy the passing scene: a local or two, clumps of women, bro's striding by. A musician in a hand-painted PT Cruiser, showing off his matching red pants and shoes and a brand new pair of silver-studded loafers. Come to my show Sunday at BMC, he urged, before heading home with his wife. 

As we got up to but our table and go get food, a drunk woman stumbled up. You're from here, right? I need to get to the Marigny Opera House. Another woman and I pointed out she could walk there in ten minutes. I've had too many cocktails, she insisted. Help me figure out Lyft. It keeps telling me to verify my email. She handed me her phone and credit card. 

Unwillingly I started punching in numbers. Fail. Tried again. Fail. I'm going to be late! the woman wailed. It's New Orleans, I bluffed. They'll let you in. Tried her credit card once more. Finally. I accepted the to and from, showed her "driver's details will display in 1 minute" and handed back her phone. She grinned, an unlit joint dangling out of her mouth, and drifted around the corner. We departed, hopeful she'd make it, too hungry to hang around.

volunteer lyfe #3

Last week I helped the local Dress for Success set up for a sale.

When I say we have inventory: for three hours, with music blasting, a dozen of us moved boxes and crates, swept and organized and stashed, hiding the bras and boring suits and displaying sequinned tops and immaculate jumpsuits on velvet hangers. Another volunteer and I swapped out work shoes for sale shoes, arranging towering heels and swanky boots by size and shape.

Young sorority women came in for the day, the first group torn between helping out and trying on sale items to purchase later. One rocked a pair of white cowboy boots, each of us hooting and wow’ed as she sashayed through the shop. Another modeled the latest in Gen Z style, an eyelet festival skirt with a crop top and Chucks.

My co-volunteer found at least six cute work dresses, two blazers and some strappy gold sandals for less than a hundred bucks.

There’s nothing like the power of fashion.

cajun country

A friend took a few of us on a road trip to Donaldsonville last week.

Population about 6000. Former state capitol (for three years). Home to the first black mayor (Pierre Caliste Landry) and not a few rootsy musicians.

We visited an old schoolhouse (not realizing, duh, we needed to make a reservation for the full tour of the River Road African American museum), and learned about the Sears Roebuck/Julius Rosenwald /Booker T. Washington partnership that led to the construction of schools.

Out back of the school was a well-tended garden. A little girl, eight or nine, rode up on her bike and hopped off to give us the skinny on the garden, pointing out pepper plants, watermelon vines, and where the chickens used to live. Her name was Dallas, or Shalay, and she had three siblings or two, depending on which version of her fanciful tales you believed. We left her at the corner, worried she’d wander off with out-of-town strangers, and she called after us with a twinkle, I have one more surprise for you. That garden? It’s mine!

We lunched at the Grapevine; I dined on crispy fried green tomatoes, mashed potatoes, and tart, cheese-cakey lemon icebox pie.

After a hot, sweaty walk by the river and a stop at an immaculately sorted grocery store for water, we headed home, with one pitstop for roadside peaches and creole tomatoes, and nostalgic candy at Cajun Village.

volunteer lyfe #2

One of the joys of volunteering is, it’s never the same experience twice.

I arrived early for my final festival shift, hustling to get out of the rain before the sandy track turned muddy. My driver wore a fresh white track suit, sparkly sunglasses, chic boots and a crisp hat. She had drinks and snacks close at hand (my misophonia brain quailed) and as we joined the queue, proceeded to give me a PhD-level class in people management.

Direct report #1 was me. When I said hi to an acquaintance and offered to stow their bag, she scolded me (never touch their things). After I took pity on a rain-drenched trio and asked if they were headed to a stage, she scolded me again (that’s not our job).

We chauffeured little kids and brass bands, tipsy hangers-on, a handsome bass player late for the stage and a host of beautifully-costumed singers and performers. I saw her deftly manage thirsty men, bossy folks, and head off inappropriateness with a comment or a smile. In between we developed a running commentary on life, men, travel, jobs and the festival. By the end of my shift, she was gently ribbing me, grabbing my elbow. Don’t leave me, both of us cracking up.

In the end, we said affectionate goodbyes, and as I signed out, the supervisor handed me extra snacks, dished about online shopping and their Barbie obsession, even gave me a hug. And I made peace with a frenemy from the spring.

It’s interesting how you go somewhere for one thing (volunteering! free music!) and end up with new and mended relationships, a cool t-shirt, and hope for next year.

volunteer lyfe

festing

It’s Festing Weekend #1 and I spent Friday and Saturday volunteering. I love the behind-the-scenes experience, plus you get a free ticket.

Win/win, I say, until I arrive on time for my 10.30am shift Friday and realize there are waaay more volunteers than shuttles.

We the unchosen sit under a canopy out of the already-blazing sun and wait, the supervisor signing time cards and murmuring into her walkie-talkie. Then she pulls up a van: get in, guys, I’m going to have to reassign you.

I’ve been to this show before, at a previous fest where I signed up as a floater and the only jobs left were picking up trash (optimistically monikered The Green Team) or taking surveys (asking drunk geezers their ages and annual income). I said a hard no to both and ended up running orders at the merch tent, sweating through my volunteer t-shirt trying to find double-XL’s in the teal, no the teal, not the green, the TEAL.

Back to Friday. We were given hi-visibility vests and earplugs and sent off to usher. Another woman and I agreed to partner up at the Blues tent, to give each other breaks and look out for weirdos. It was a long four hours on our feet, asking lingerers to stay out of the fire zone. As the day got hotter and festers got drunker, they got nastier, and by the end of our shift we basically picked up our shit and fled.

I did hear some amazing music though, including D.K. Harrell who I hope to hear again.

*

Saturday I got my ass out the door bright and early, hopped over a stopped freight train (don’t ask), walked and biked my way up to arrive 30 minutes early, to find some of the older volunteers already there. What the what? Anyway, I signed in, shot the shit about thrift stores and shady drivers (the narcoleptic from last year is history) and got assigned a beautifully air-conditioned van and chatty driver.

For four hours I rode shotgun, helping performers and family and friends in and out of the van, Tetris-ing instruments and bags. I learned about my driver’s life, raising kids, running an apparel company and coaching sports. Their daughter does track and long jump and when I asked about the strength and skills needed to do the latter, they said simply, You can’t be afraid to fly.

We picked up black masking Indians and their gorgeous feathered, beaded suits, one in yellow all talkative and sweaty at the end of his performance; girls in leotards and buns, heading to perform at the childrens’ stage. Their grandma took my seat so I huddled in the back and listened to fifteen-year-olds bicker genially about phone cases and bad hair. There was the non-performer family looking for a ride (we forgot something at the tent), a good-natured bluesman who said It’s alright bebe when we missed his stop, the brass band late for their gig, hurriedly shoving a tuba and drum in the back and sitting on laps to make it in time, and a panicked drummer cramming his entire kit into the van, including an industrial fan, a rolled-up carpet, and a very precious and bored girlfriend.

I heard gossip about feuding parking attendants, a masking Indian fistfight, and the parsimonious festival, which fed the drivers ham sandwiches last year but this year sprung for preloaded Visa cards.

One of our last riders had helped out at the folk tent all day, played a show, then hopped in the van to get back to his bike to work a shift at a famed restaurant in the Quarter. Then he’d drive home to Lafayette late in the evening to get to his real job back home.

*

I ended my evening saying hello to friends, watching Victor Campbell and Big Freedia. My driver’s words stuck with me though, as we discussed the city and its problems and its joys, festing being a big one. You can’t be afraid to fly.