All That Jazz

If you ever get a chance to go to New Orleans... GO!!!

Or is it GEAUX?

Either way, everything you have heard about the place is true.

Well, the good things.

I can’t speak for the bad.

Because I didn’t see any.

Like any big city -- and New Orleans is a big city -- there are problems.

And the hurricane of seven years past has still left a crippling impact.

But based on where we went.

And what we saw.

And what we eat.

I can’t wait to go back.

I had always heard that New Orleans is one of the most dangerous cities in the country.

“Keep your wallet in your front pocket.”

“Don’t cross that street.”

I heard all that stuff.... and more.

And I’m sure there are plenty of horror stories that would justify those concerns.

But fortunately I was not one of them.

The people we met were among the nicest I have ever encountered.

Ever!

I went on the trip with my friend, who is originally from New York.

And the Southern hospitality really pissed him off.

“It makes me want to be nice,” he said.  “And that makes me very uncomfortable.”

But he eventually got over it.

And started to feel right at home.

I was actually surprised how much the French Quarter reminded me of New York City.

A ton of restaurants.

Bars.

Shops.

It had everything a tourist would ever need.

Except a Starbucks.

Or McDonalds.

But plenty of bars.

PLENTY.

Our first night was spent at Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop.

The corner of Bourbon and St. Philip.

They claim to be “the oldest structure used as a bar in the United States.” 

At a quick glance it doesn’t seem like anything special.

But make sure you walk inside.

All the way to the dark room in the back, where the piano is located.

Before I knew it, it was 1:00am.

A guy who looked like Jack Sparrow and sounded like Dr. John was banging on the keys, belting out the tunes.

That was definitely the high point of the famed Bourbon Street for me.

The rest of the street was quite disgusting.

Way too many people.

Way too many strip bars.

(Did I just say that?)

Way too much... yuck.

But travel one block to the south and you’re on Royal Street.

A much more civilized way to spend the night.

Two more blocks to the south and you’re on Decatur.

The home of the beignet.

Cafe du Monde.

We made our obligatory trip there for our first breakfast.

Because that’s what you do.

But I gotta be honest, it didn’t make my mouth go AMAZING, as I hoped that it would.

As far as donuts go, it was fine.

But I’d rather have one of them “Hot Doughnuts Now” at Krispy Kreme.

Any day of the week.

Fortunately right up the street from Cafe du Monde was a place to wash it all down.

Evangeline.

The home of the Bacon Bloody Mary.

Bacon-infused Vodka with a slice of the real stuff inside.

It definitely tested my theory that bacon makes everything better.

But this was actually quite tasty.

Especially at 11 in the AM.

There is no shortage of culture in New Orleans.

No shortage of quirky either.

Take Jackson Square.

That’s between Royal and Decatur.

We walked by the square around midnight and saw no fewer than 25 palm readers.

Just sitting at their card table.

Under candlelight.

Waiting to read your palm.

We stared, but didn’t stop.

One of the readers had a sign that said -- “Do you know what I am thinking now?”

No.

But what I was thinking was ... this is really weird!

During the day at Jackson Square, the palm readers were replaced by a different group of quirk.

“Cemetery Tours.”

The horse and carriages were lined up on Decatur, trying to sell me on seeing the dead.

We passed on that as well.

But that was not the end of the street experience.

Not by far.

Night and day the area is overflowing with people.

Artists showing off their work.

“Poets for hire” sitting at their typewriter.

And more musicians than the LSU marching band.

The instrument of choice in New Orleans usually involves something brass.

And these guys can really blow.

Down and around the bend from Bourbon Street is Frenchmen Street.

That’s where the locals hang out.

Well, where they used to hang out.

Before us tourists found out how cool it is.

Tons of bars.

Duh!

A bunch of music clubs.

Impromptu bands on the street corner.

On the steps of a building.

Courtesy my iPhone

Everywhere you go, there is music.

Up until last week I really thought I loved music.

Then I went to New Orleans.

Let me tell you, that city LOVES music.

People spend eight hours a day at the Jazz Festival listening to music.

Then they go grab something quick to eat.

Probably fried and with crawfish in it.

Then it’s off to a local club to see another show.

Tipitina’s

Preservation Hall.

House of Blues.

Take your pick.

This city has more clubs than ten decks of cards.

The hot show while we were there was a band called Galactic.

Friday night at Rock N’ Bowl.

Actually make that Saturday morning.

2:00AM.

Don’t these people sleep?

Apparently not, the cover charge was $25 and the place was sold out.

My last night there we went to one of them late night/early morning shows.

This one at the Maple Leaf Bar.

Three bands, $20.

We made it in time for the 11:30 show.

11:30PM!

And that was the warm-up band for the 2:30 show.

This bar is no bigger than a basketball court.

A high school basketball court.

But these guys were cranking out music like we were at Madison Square Garden.

It was incredible.

I was arms distance away from some world class musicians who took me to a place I had never been.

For two hours.

By the end of the show, I was ready for a nap.

Which is all I had time for since I had to leave for the airport just three hours later.

OMG!

There was a week, not too long ago, when I was asked the same exact question.

By two completely different people.

“Do you believe in God?”

Now that’s a strange question to be asked, I said.

To myself.

I’ve made it 43+ years, so far.

And other than possibly a Rabbi in 5th or 7th Grade.

Or maybe both.

Or some solicitor knocking on my door.

I can’t remember being asked that question before.

I’m sure it’s happened.

But it certainly hasn’t happened twice.

In the same week.

By two completely different people.

It hasn’t happened by a friend that I’ve known for 25 years.

And then happened a day later.

By a girl I’d never met before, sitting next to me at a restaurant.

As for the answer to that burning question.

That answer would be yes.

I don’t know that I could say God is a big part of my everyday life.

Although I do say a prayer every night before I go to bed.

And I do look to the sky whenever life hands me lemons.

Before I try to make some lemonade.

Faith is a funny thing.

When you need it, you lean on it.

When you don’t need it, you don’t think about it.

When the University of Pittsburgh got bailed out by a last second foul on Saturday, I guarantee they said....

“THANK GOD.”

But when they committed an idiotic foul seconds later to lose the game, I guarantee they didn’t say....

“BLAME GOD.”

How is that possible?

Did God decide to help Pittsburgh?

And then seconds before it was over, He... or She picked up the real Universal Remote.

And moved onto the BYU game.

Same God, right?

I’m a big believer when it comes to believing.

Believing in whatever you gotta believe.

To get from point A to point B.

Especially to guide us through the tough times.

You.

Me.

Anybody.

Whatever you want to believe.

Whomever you want to believe in.

BELIEVE!

If you want to believe there is some grand master plan.

Believe it.

My friend believes it.

I got an email from him today.

He is well aware of the ups and downs in my life.

At one point, many years ago, we were very close.

Unfortunately life has drifted us apart from one another.

But thanks to a common interest in music.

And us both living on email.

We have managed to stay in touch.

Somewhat.

The last time we were together was a few months ago.

In New York.

We did a couple of nights of dinner.

A show.

Great catching up time.

And in that quality time he saw I was hurting.

So since then, his emails have come more frequently.

And more supportively.

Is supportively a word?

Well, it’s amazing what a little love will do.

His positive energy is enough to recharge any dead battery.

Even my dead battery.

And when I got his most recent email, it made me smile.

Again.

In that email he informed me...

“God only challenges those who can take it.”

Say what?

Now nothing against Bible thumpers.

But my friend is no Bible thumper.

Far from it.

I’m guessing the only other time he has referenced “God” to me was something like...

....”Oh My God she was hot.”

Not exactly Corinthians 4:27.

But he continued. 

“God has a plan.

“And it might not be our plan.”

“But he has a plan.”

Ok, keep going.

“I know that you use to work a lot of hours, more than you wanted but it was required as part of your position.”

“I know that you did not get to spend as much time as you would like with you kids and maybe this is God's way of helping you get back to really what is the most important in your life.”

“I know it is hard to argue with that right!”

“Stay strong and enjoy this time with your kids.”

OMG!

Where did this come from?

Was this a sign?

From above?

The message was perfectly simple.

The meaning was clear.

Don’t ever stray too far.

And don’t disappear.

No don’t disappear.

He ended this email, as he ends every email.

“God Bless”.

God Bless you too.

Not So Silent Night

Every so often I run across a new creation and I slap my head like its a V8 commercial.

WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT???????

That happens EVERY time I go by a fantasy sports website.

Or listen to the words from a Katy Perry song.

Or drive by a Starbucks.

Damn Starbucks.

Well, it’s happened again.

And again.

Every Tuesday night.

It’s called Glee.

Just imagine if Grease had a baby with American Idol.

That’s Glee.

If you haven’t seen it, shame on you.

It has everything you would ever want in a show.

At least everything I would ever want in a show.

It is the greatest show of all-time.

At least the greatest show of this time.

This week.

Sure some of the characters are a little cliche.

A little predictable.

A little page 19 of the stereotype handbook.

But the creators of Glee have all the food groups covered.

Gay kid.  Jock.  Wheelchair.  Black girl.  Hot girl.

I clearly haven’t watched the show closely enough, but I imagine there is a Jew or two in there as well.

Actually, I haven’t watched the show much at all.

I’m guessing it is in the 2nd or 3rd season at this point and I’ve only seen two or three episodes.

But my oldest daughter is addicted.

As is my friend Rick.

And since Rick is old enough to be my daughter’s father, I figured it was good enough for me.

So now we watch it every week.

And as my family sits there singing the songs, I sit there thinking how rich we would be if I would’ve come up with the idea for this damn show.

Doh.

Singing is big in my family.

I do it.

My wife tries to do it.

My son would like to do it.

My oldest daughter refuses to do it.

And my youngest daughter loves doing it.

The Osmonds have nothing on us.

My wife and I have helped the kids find something they are passionate about.

And then we encourage them to do it SO much they are destined to hate it.

Ok, just kidding.   I think.

My oldest daughter is the dancer.   

My son is the baseball player.

And now child #3 is a singer.

Officially.

She loves soccer and softball... and reading, but she’s definitely the entertainer in the family.

So we signed her up for the local choir.

Not a church choir or school choir, this is the real deal.

Practice twice a week.   Payment once a month.

This singing school actually teaches the kids how to read music AND how to sing.

A few days ago this choir held its 21st Annual Winter Shindig.

In all there were 204 kids on the stage and more than a thousand people in the stands.

They broke the kids up into several age-specific groups and each group performed several songs.

I’m not sure if it was the father in me or the singer in me, but I loved every second of it.

When I was her age I sang in the Synagogue Choir.

That was a big deal.

Then.

Every Jewish New Year they would give me the solo.

About midway through the endless service, I would belt out a few words in Hebrew that I had no idea what they meant.

Then, as a form of appreciation, the old men in the audience would pinch my pudgy cheeks and squeeze my right hand until the blood stopped.

I would’ve preferred a little coin.

But hey, they loved me, they really loved me.

My daughter’s performance was a lot more official than anything I was ever part of.

There was a maestro.

And a pianist.

And a fluterist.

And for one song they had a glockenspielski.

Good thing this wasn’t a spelling bee.

The concert must’ve run close to two hours as the kids performed 22 songs.

My wife secured seats in the fifth or sixth row so that my daughter could be distracted by us.

When she came on stage she scratched her nose to say hello.

Waiving might’ve got her kicked out of the choir.

Then she stood front and center, singing three songs and spreading Christmas cheer for more than ten minutes.

And this was no generic Christmas cheer either.

There was no “Grandma got run over by a reindeer” or “I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus”.

This was the real stuff.

“Snow is falling still”.

And “Sleep, my child”.

And “A Winter Carol”.

Three songs I had never heard of.

And they had never sounded so beautiful.

So good in fact, I almost pinched my daughter’s cheeks.

There's always next year.