I’d only been to House of Blues once before, for their famous Sunday Gospel Brunch. Though I was never much of a fan of the Gospel music genre, after that brunch, I was converted. The place remained imprinted on my psyche -- as much an iconic experience of New Orleans as first seeing the massive shadow of Jesus on the back wall of St. Louis Cathedral, hearing the drumbeats of the Voodoo ceremony echoing off the antebellum walls of the Quarter on Halloween night (and I’m talking Voodoo Authentica, not the Voodoo Music Festival), and having my very first taste of heaven (bread pudding) at Pierre Maspero’s. Imagine then, the thrill for this northern girl, as my husband and I entered the venue the afternoon prior to Breastoration’s first big fundraiser, “House of Pink” at House of Blues!
Our mission was to figure out a way to hang the quilt I was donating as an auction item for the event. That’s a whole story in itself. Well, two stories. One about making the quilt and the other about hanging it (an engineering challenge I’d worried over for several months), especially since House of Blues allows nothing to be hung on the walls. But as intimidated as I felt about that, and as nervous as I was about not knowing a soul, I was soon welcomed by the lovely silent auction ladies from the Louisiana Breast Cancer Task Force. They were busily arranging the many donated items to show to their best advantage. I immediately felt a common bond. I’m on the same committee, back home, for our breast center’s annual fundraiser. It’s the committee no one really wants to be on -- asking local businesses to donate items, especially when times have been tough for the last few years. Cheers to the ladies who brave the asking! And of course, we had other things in common -- all of us members of the sorority no woman wants to join. Official color: pink (from cool pastel to hot fuchsia).
Later, standing on the main floor, watching Rockin’ Dopsie Jr. and the Zydeco Twisters boogie with the growing host of ladies who’d joined them onstage, I see that New Orleans gals are way more comfortable “getting down” than their more staid contemporaries up in the frozen climes of Minnesota. While I enjoyed a gin and tonic (to loosen up) from the open bar (wow!), it all felt like a dream. I was standing in these hallowed halls in New Orleans, more than just a tourist this time, celebrating a major milestone for the foundation that, not too many months before, was just an idea. Turning to my husband, shaking my head, I said, “Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore!”
Later, standing on the main floor, watching Rockin’ Dopsie Jr. and the Zydeco Twisters boogie with the growing host of ladies who’d joined them onstage, I see that New Orleans gals are way more comfortable “getting down” than their more staid contemporaries up in the frozen climes of Minnesota. While I enjoyed a gin and tonic (to loosen up) from the open bar (wow!), it all felt like a dream. I was standing in these hallowed halls in New Orleans, more than just a tourist this time, celebrating a major milestone for the foundation that, not too many months before, was just an idea. Turning to my husband, shaking my head, I said, “Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore!”
