The Day The Music Died
I don’t really know what to say. Usually, in this space, I try to write pithy, witty commentary about our city and state and our communal lives. All the weirdness and comedy that abounds.
But I don’t have it in me right now. I’ve got nothing pithy or witty. Just a raging storm of sadness not just for what happened, but for what is about to happen.
And for what?
New Orleans is hopefully – and thankfully – out of this terrible fray. But my gig here is to write dry or ironic or comical posts. But I just don’t have it in me right now.
This all fecking sucks. An insurrection by privileged white boys – of which I am no doubt one – performing acts that would get hundreds of black people killed had they done the same thing. But they didn’t, and they don’t, because they know they will get killed for it.
I feel like the late night comedians who ran out of material last week. Where’s a funny writer when I need one?
It’s not me. I’ve made a life out of being funny, ironic and more than a little bit sticky. But I’ve got nothing this week. I don’t even know if myneworleans.com will publish this post.
And that’s fine if they don’t. It’s dark, I get that. (But I do hope I get paid for my effort. But even if not, that’s fine. I get it. This is supposed to be a happy place.)
I try to entertain here. Make light of the news of the day, the week, the month. But today, there is no light of the news. We all – everyone of of us – thought: Schwew, 2020 is over. It can only get better now, right?
How’s that working out so far?
Madness ascends upon us. Mad King George the IV is arisen. (Google that one kids.) There seems so little to be funny about that even Jimmy Kimmel has given up on it.
I don’t have a team of 20 writers to help me out. I’ve just got me. And I’m spent. I’m exhausted. And I’m pissed.
This is generally a safe space for me. Actually, the only job I have any more after being forced into involuntarily retirement. I can’t give tours anymore. I can’t do art markets to sell my pictures. But here is where I can rant and rave and hopefully make you laugh.
Not this week. Not this day. It feels like that epic Don McLean song: American Pie. The day the music died. Something touched me deep inside.
The players tried to take the field. But the marching band refused to yield. Fire is the Devil’s only friend.
My partner tells me I’m a pessimist and perhaps she’s right. In this space, I usually write about the splendid weirdness of New Orleans and its outer parishes. I try to be funny. I even usually laugh at my own jokes.
But I got none this week. Forgive me, dear readers, but I will find humor in life by next week.
That’s a promise.
And a threat.
Peace on Earth, everyone. Stay safe. Stay inside.