When I die, I hope it's not in August. It's just too damn hot in New Orleans. But neither heat nor hurricane could stop New Orleanians from celebrating the sendoff of a legend. If he were British, we'd be calling him Sir Peter Fountain. He was an institution, the face of New Orleans.
And as you already know, when you die in New Orleans we throw you a party. First we play a sad song, then a happy one. We talk in the streets about you. We dance. We celebrate a life.
So long Mr. Fountain, rest easy.
