As everything has to come to an end, so to has the 47th annual Detroit Jazz Festival, and my burden is significantly lightened. Posting to social media is a strange thing, not journalism but with elements of it, not quite marketing but with elements of that, too. Truth be told, far more marketing than journalism, but sometimes you can say that about The New York Times. But it was four long days with lots of running around, buttonholing artists for stop-and-chats, being on the lookout for interesting things on and around the various stages.

But truth be told, I cannot top the City of Detroit genius who came to the festival and gave us the Unc Cam:

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This was my breaking news:

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A very fragile and interesting moment I feel fortunate to have captured (not well, but at least I captured it).

The hotel where we all stayed, the Marriott at the RenCen, is enormous, and was also accommodating the Islamic Society of North America and a large Indian wedding. So when any random elevator door opened, you might be sharing it with men in shalwar kameez or a thobe, women in abayas or long dresses with a hijab in contrasting print trailing behind, raven-haired beauties in saris with hennaed hands, or some dude all in black carrying a saxophone case. Today it was a teenager in a T-shirt advertising “a better way to wudu.” I asked him what the better way was; he said it involved a special sock. (Wudu, for those who don’t know, is the ritual bathing before Islamic prayer, and the problematic part is the feet. The University of Michigan at Dearborn, after repairing too many bathroom sinks accidentally torn from the wall by clumsy wudu, installed footbaths.)

Anyway, it was a good weekend of exhausting work and excellent music. Plus uncs. And this lady, the one on the right…

…who is famous. I asked her where she got her sunglasses. She said Reykjavik. I saw her every day, always looking amazing.

But now, friends, I am bone-tired and intend to sleep until my body has had enough. I want you to know that I haven’t forgotten this blog, nor you readers. I now intend to enjoy Adult Summer — the six weeks of good-enough weather that follows Labor Day — to the fullest.