got up at 5 am this morning to drive down to nola for the krewe of saint anne parade that starts at 8 am in the marigny. picked up chicago and will burke and hit the highway before the sun came up.

we were parked and sitting in a cafe’ by 7:15. eric schmitt and lindsay showed up around 8 and we had our first drink at the bar across the street.

this parade was special. it was a neighborhood parade … no floats. just a brass band, a drum line, a second line, and a bunch of fucking freaks in costumes walking through the streets of new orleans stopping at bars along the way. you don’t watch this parade, you are the parade.

next year i need a real, real, real good costume …

words can’t really explain this scene, so … here you go.

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the first thing you learn about mardi gras is everything is up and running at the ass crack. you drink yourself silly and then find yourself up bright and early swearing that you won’t start drinking yourself silly again.

but you get caught up in it.

after southdowns friday night, i went to the evening poetry reading for delta mouth. it was in the baton rouge community art gallery. nice place, but i almost freaked when i walked in. about fifty people, sitting calmly in a large room of the gallery, listening calmly to poetry. white walls. photographs. chairs. i had just come from a parade for fucks sake! the shift in dynamics was … rough. layed low in the back for awhile. then found a seat on the floor. then found a chair.

then a funny story …

the last poet gets up and he’s this old hippie guy who i had seen when i walked in. wearing this hooded sweatshirt with a pot leaf on it. i winked at him when i saw him. he smiled.

so he gets up and reads a poem about allen ginsberg giving lsd to thelonious monk. the last line was monk’s, and it was something like, “man, do you have any more of that stuff? i don’t think it worked. i don’t feel any different.”

*kevin arrives at the poetry reading*

the guy’s name was john sinclair, and he was the balls. direct, emotional, honest, brave, powerful, funny, heartbreaking.

beautiful.

i see mel after and say, ‘hey, i liked that last guy!’ she says, ‘i knew that was your man.’

‘i think i’ll buy a book of his poetry,’ i say to chicago mel. so i pick up the two books he has lying on the table and leaf through one. a bunch of shit on the MC5. the MC5. john sinclair.

holy shit.

this is the john sinclair that was the manager of the MC5. leader of the socialist white panther party that worked to support the black panthers in the 60s. sitting here in the middle of baton rouge on a late friday night reading poetry in an art gallery.

synchronicity, as the police called it …

i bought the book he read from off of a nice lady named celia (who turned out to be his daughter) and found him out front to say hi. he signed my copy as follows:

to kevin-

kick out the jams motherfucker!

with love,

john sinclair

baton rouge

2-20-2008

***

back to parade coverage:

the parade starts at noon. chicago and i headed over around 11 am and hoofed it up past the capitol building and into spanish town.

beautiful day. nice people. parties. floats. beer. food. beads!

this bead thing is something else … you find yourself obsessed with acquiring better and better beads. (‘i want those white ones!’ yelled chicago mel.) then you want footballs, frisbees, cups, stuffed animals. you want all this shit. and so does everyone else around you. grown men and women, drunk, many in costume, clamoring for free trinkets.

my kinda capitalism.

look! see!

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friday night was my first mardi gras experience. the neighborhood i live in has its own warm up parade the night before the big baton rouge spanish town parade.

the previous two nights at teddy’s had taken their toll to some extent, and i was already feeling pretty green before the weekend even came around.

i went over to neil’s before and had sazeracs to get tuned up a bit before we stepped outside to watch.

the parade was short, sweet, and tame. i caught some beads and even got the baby in the king cake at neil’s.

feet wetting.

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