The days when the only reason one came to Louisville, Colorado, was to get spaghetti at either the Blue Parrot or its rival splitter, Colacci's (now housing the Empire), are done.
We are no longer merely wholesome—one of the best places in the country to raise a family as judged by Money Magazine and others, routinely—but hip as well.
The place where as recently as five years ago you might have had a tough time getting a drink after ten o'clock, even on the weekend, now features art walks, live music on a regular basis, outdoor dining, drinking, espresso sipping—it's like Paris without the rain, without the little dogs shitting everywhere.
And, on Fridays in the summer, to turbo-charge wining and dining and keep our property taxes low, we have the Louisville Street Faire, which hasn't always drawn thousands of people to this once sleepy town, but it has for a number of years now.
Some recession.
This last Friday Little Feat was in town, sans, notably, Lowell George and Richie Hayward (both deceased), but still.
They rocked the shit out of the place.
And packed up front by the stage weren't the kids, the young hipsters, but the verily wizened old hippies and middle aged grinners wistful for the seventies, singing along to "Oh Atlanta," "Juanita," and "Dixie Chicken" (bookending the Dead's "Tennessee Jed"), wishing they'd scored some weed before the show, and maybe even some blow ("whiskey ... and bad cocaine") if their hearts could still stand it, deepen the already considerable character in some of those happy, grinning faces, making do, most of them—me, my wife, my friends—on margaritas and Boulder Beer products.
I was glad we got a sitter for the kids. They eat your cash in hurry down there.
All for a good cause, of course.
Louisville. Keeping us off the dole, ya know.
Next week The Samples are coming to town. Later in the summer, Marcia Ball—I don't know that she's ever played in Paris.
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