Jukin' and Eatin' and Capitol Viewin'

Entertaining out of town visitors took us to two places that were new to us and two that are growing familiar.

At Teddy's Juke Joint we saw a musician called Eden Brent, a red-dressed, "whiskey-voiced," as many reviewers have written that other reviewers have written, singer from Mississippi.

Here's a shot of Teddy's dj booth

A happy occasion.

We also went to Boutin's for the first time.

Fun; they have a small bayou in the back; very pretty. The Zydeco band was pretty good and so was the food. I wondered if it was "too white" and realized that understanding cultural-racial issues in a state not one's own, particularly one with at least two more ethnic groups than most other states, seems pretty complex and I feel unauthorized to even continue thinking in this area. The shrimp was good.



We retrieved pastries from Ambrosia Bakery on Siegen; extremely good almond croissants among other treats. And we ate a nice lunch at Bistro Byronz.

And then here are reasons to love Baton Rouge from the 27th floor of the state capitol building.








That last one is the original LSU, the Pentagon Barracks.

And then here's a picture of Doc Watson who performed wonderfully at Jazzfest in New Orleans last Friday.

On Lost Books, or, deliberations while writing a final paper on Montaigne

"Where is my book?" the esteemed LSU English professor asked me one warming afternoon in Allen Hall. "I would greatly appreciate the return of my book." Now, I thought to myself, is this the appropriate time to put aside the conclusions I have in the past made concerning this individual's sanity and pertinence when it comes to knowledge and love of art?

Or should I answer him from this place of confusion and mockery?

I do not have your book, I wanted to say. Or, What book are you talking about? was another utterance. But that would be working from the place in me that treats everyone the same: 1) Tell the truth, 2) seek information to perform request asked of you.

I recently got a new bookshelf. Months before, I interviewed aforementioned professor about the injuries suffered by Baton Rouge during the Civil War and driving tours I might make in the area (not, mind you, the siege of vicksburg and the lovely ladies who dwelled in caves during the Union's occupation of the city---but I am not an appointed custodian of southern Lincolnalia, and thus, did not control the course of the interview)

I left the office with not one but two brochures, and not two but four pages of notes, and not, mind you, before I was accused (for the third time) of making an anonymous complaint to the Department chair regarding the professor's violation of written, graded essay assignments for undergraduate students.

Where is my book? The question haunted me. Not where is my time machine or where is my tango partner---both questions that have before come from his mouth, but this one a very reasonable one that all of us might ask each other several times a year as we dig in our heels to living the life of the mind, no matter how much our relatives beg us to find pensions, purpose, use.
"I may be moving and it is very important to me that I get that book back."I knew better than to respond based on Pyrrhic unknowingness. No. Not for this particular specimen of the ivory tower. I reminded myself that internal decisions of deception are translated onto the face and can alter others' reactions. (See Of Physiognomy)

I dissembled. I controlled my audience's reations. To be continued.

"Self portrait as a pious young woman"

by Katie Claiborne

Snip snippets from MicroStorm Watcher

Just another frigging day here in Baton Rouge, where police officers dangle precariously from lopsided street lights and everyone is all about blocking the box on College at 12:25 PM.

"A man and his daughter drowned in that puddle, you're lucky," says the Albertson's check out man, after I describe to him how N. Acadian's micro-valley was 4 feet under earlier Thursday morning."You'd think they'd find a way to make that, I don't know--less of a valley there," he mused aloud.

On a side road off Morning Glory, a couple stood patiently under a fallen oak, almost like they were waiting for the wedding photographer. It will be just as pretty, if not more so, with all the green down around their shoulders.

Thistles

Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of

men

Thistles spike the summer air
And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.















Every one a revengeful burst
Of resurrection, a grasped fistful
Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up















From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.


















Then they grow grey like men.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.

- Ted Hughes

Dandelion Gigantus

Snow in Louisiana!

You thought you'd never see it!