. . . with gay abandon.

She seemed to enjoy being naked as much as men have enjoyed seeing her naked. Even when she tried to appear naughty and sly, she could rarely pull it off:

Most of the time she just looked like somebody having lots of fun.


Between the two weekends of the Jazz Fest, New Orleans is hopping with music at other venues.  On Thursday, Adrienne, Bill and I went over to The Columns Hotel on St. Charles where Morikeba Kouyate, master of the kora, an African gourd harp, was sitting in with guitarist John Rankin.

It was awesome.


Every year during Jazz Fest a guy in The Garden District puts up a display on his porch, in solidarity with the event.

New Orleans is not a big city — these days it contains only about 350,000 souls, most of whom seem to believe that they’re part of one big neighborhood, at least during times of festival, and there are festivals in New Orleans most weeks of the year.


Jim Russell’s, on Magazine Street in New Orleans. There are a zillion LPs in this shop, but so disorganized that searching for anything becomes a bewildering chore. I picked up a couple of musical soundtracks, which I’ve yet to test on a turntable, but felt that there must be even finer treasures lurking on the shelves — it was just too much work to find out.

Still, it was wonderful to be surrounded by so much vinyl, and the chaos had its own kind of charm.