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Where Is Susan Cowsill?
I could not really see myself standing shoulder to shoulder in the full 90-degree sunshine with only a hat and maybe an occasional mist of water to cool me off so I stayed home the first weekend of Jazzfest and painted my kitchen. Occasionally I would look out a window and see that plane with its banner advertisement for Tequiza, which is a product I do not want to know anything about. And I could hear the motor of a blimp every so often, so it was like Jazzfest in my kitchen, except I was drinking a lot more beer than if I were at Jazzfest, and there are more trees around here than at the Fairgrounds. I had the radio tuned to WWOZ because they broadcast live some of the acts. I heard Astral Project, a highly reputed jazz group but not one I am that fond of. Gatemouth Brown, however, seems to be getting even better with age.
I have no idea why I picked the color I did, but there it is, there you have it. I could not tell if it was the beer or the brand of cigarettes I was smoking but at one point the color that now surrounded me seemed to be buzzing. The color, you are curious about it now, don't tell me otherwise, is like the yolk of a farm egg plugged into a 220 volt wall socket. I do not spend that much time in the kitchen so maybe this will be all right. Painting is what I do for a living and therefore doing it in my spare time is not always that enjoyable so the chances are better than good that the kitchen will remain in its vibrant state for some time.
I do not mean to snub Jazzfest and the myriad related musical venues around town for the two week period even though cover charges at popular clubs double and drink prices are like being in NEW YORK CITY. So after painting the kitchen I took a shower and went to the Mid-City Lanes Rock n' Bowl to hear Anders Osborne. He is a Swedish dude who wanted to play the blues and relocated here six or seven years ago and the best I can tell you is he is sort of like Sting meets Jimi Hendrix. He's good. His jams are about as far out there as you can get, but he always comes back with a little melody to remind you where you were before you left. That's assuming you left with him.
Did I mention that Mick Jagger has been inside the Rock n' Bowl? Which is to say I've never enjoyed myself there because it seems like whoever is in there, besides Mick, is waiting to see Mick, or something, I don't know, I'm not blaming them that, I'd like to meet Mick too, seems like an agreeable chap, but Jesus Christ man, if you can't leave Dallas when you leave Dallas, don't come here. Of course, if you're already here, buy a bunch of T-shirts, have a good time, buy a bunch of stuff, it's your world baby.
Okay, okay, I'll tell you what got me so pissed off that night. I’m just standing there, with my back to the bowling lanes, facing the bar, drinking bottled water, wondering how old those girl bartenders are, wondering if wearing Catholic school girl mini-skirts while selling liquor is legal. I have the backs of my knees pressed up against the edge of a molded plastic bowling alley type seat. It is my not so subtle way of saying I may need to sit down soon, I'm tired. It is the end seat I am protecting. There are four empty seats next to it. They have been empty for ten minutes before a group comes and sits down. Which is fine and good, until a guy comes and stands next to me, in front of his female, and slowly begins insinuating himself into my space so that he can worm his way into the seat I am clearly standing in front of. He did not speak to me or ask if he could have "my" chair, which I would have (begrudgingly) given him. He literally slithered his body up against mine and acted as if he were quite willing to occupy the seat even at the expense of having my ass in his face. With forced politeness I explained the situation to him. How I thought I might like to sit down soon, and then his buddy came into it and ludicrously explained how they had been sitting there and I just raised my hands, in defeat, moved over two feet, and spoke no more to them. At their soonest opportunity they took a group of seats away from me, and I sat down, talked to pretty party chick from Memphis, and her boyfriend, but got bored, and not being able to find a comfortable groove at the Rock n' Bowl, I left very early. I didn't see Anders Osborne but I had seen him for free back dropped by the Mississippi with tankers and sternwheelers moving by at the French Quarter Festival and that would have to be good enough for awhile.
The Rock n' Bowl is a good venue though, and I'm sure does not suffer from me not liking it. And 15 bucks for two stages, upstairs with bowling, downstairs without, is not so pricey considering the talent--Rebirth Brass Band, Rockin' Dopsie (that's Doopsie, he's pop rock rhythm and blues zydeco), Anders Osborne, and Ingrid Lucia (I don't really know who she is, but she's not generic, and I would like to hear her again; she was the soundtrack to the musical chairs ordeal).
After a six-month slowdown work got steady again. The boss and me went to work for his brother, still painting high end, but in Old Metairie this time, instead of River Ridge, and English Turn. Old Metairie is the closest affluent suburb and shares some of the New Orleans charm--albeit watered down and with apparent lesser depravity. But being old the charm is earned more legitimately than a few area imitators with much shorter histories. Also, it seems to be the highest concentration of beautiful people I have encountered thus far, so I may wash the truck, which as far as I can tell is the only thing holding me back from a complete and total discreet integration of Old Metairie.
I have even postponed putting oil in the truck to keep from spilling it on the area's most valuable real estate, where older homes are torn down for the sake of their 200-300 thousand dollar lots and then replaced with four to six thousand square foot two stories with brick and stucco exteriors. In fact I have ignored the truck's crankcase since that disappointment before Christmas when the dipstick was showing such an alarmingly high level of fluid--of course it should be just oil--that I had to reconsider a thousand miles of cross country travel. But I've driven it everyday since and only recently has the oil light alarmed me I might want to check the dipstick. There seems to be a little more smoke and of course the transmission still slips. And instead of adjusting the idle I just drive the (automatic transmission) truck with one foot on the gas and the other on the brake so at stoplights my foot keeps the idle up and I don't stall out. It does backfire occasionally. I haven't checked the oil yet, as of this writing. And the nails in the tires have worn away and a lack of a proper gasket between the manifold and the exhaust has me in the cab breathing gases that should be puffing out the rear pipe.
My second car has two flat tires and an undiagnosed mechanical problem.
I know, I know, where is Susan Cowsill? All the previous words are simply an avoiding of that simple question. I went to Howlin' Wolf Tuesday night between the Jazzfest weekends and saw local band the Continental Drifters, roots rockers, and they were good. And I may have most maturely put a cap on my six-month crush for former Bangle, eight year New Orleanian Drifter, Vicki Peterson on a night that had me acting out a role that allowed me to drink Bud and Jameson till two a.m. on a school night.
Probably marriage and divorce to leading male Drifter, Peter Holpsapple, was a hindrance to her having a happy career with the band but Susan Cowsill was sure missed at Tuesday night's show. Some people you just end up wondering about. I wonder where she is, Susan Cowsill?