I drove Hemphry over alligators, fish, mangroves and water, on a bridge that went on for miles. This is bayou country. All you could see was water, and trees growing out of it. It's pretty neat. Keith snapped a couple of photos, engaged in thought provoking conversation and was good company the whole way.

At around Three-Thirty on Monday, we pulled into town.

Yeeah! New Orleans. Naw'lans. The Big Easy. We followed the signs for the French Quarter. As we went by Harrah's, there was a big Anti Abortion protest. There were all of these pictures of fetuses, and even huge placards showing dismembered and bloody baby fragments. It was abrupt and quite startling. Feeling frustrated by the mounting Iraqi civilian death toll, and knowing their ["pro-life"] likely right wing Christian Fundamentalist stance, I yelled out the window really loud, "Bomb The Hell Out of Em!" It just happened, one of those things that I found out I was doing as I was doing it. I didn't know exactly what I meant, but Keith and I laughed as we considered the absurdity of it all. He's like "I don't see how any man would think that he has a say in what goes on in a women's body." That, right there is enough. It's not our place to say. We (men) need to give the power back, as women assertively take it. It's essential for balance, which is essential for our survival.

If people want to save lives, why not join the volunteer fire brigade? No, seriously. What about World Hunger, and other food issues? I mean if we all are created equal, then why not try to make it better for those people already alive? Just because someone has brown skin, and lives in a land that has had much of it's natural wealth stripped from her already, and because the land had been colonized, and then granted "freedom", and then was broke, so the IMF and World Bank come along and offer loans at rock bottom interest rates to begin with, while the country's economy must conform to certain "free market" trade policies, while more loans are offered, and food export prices fall, while the debt grows, and all the meanwhile these people whose parents come from people who've been there for centuries and have lived well from the land, until the economy demanded they pay, while their government learns how to work for America. Because as Bush has already stated at least a couple of times, "If you're not with us, you're against us." If you're country's not promoting America's, global domination, then you are an enemy of America. And be careful not to act on behalf of the people in your own country, because that will surely put you at odds with this planet's most powerful and disrespectful Nation.

Wow. I wrote that last night, and I'm going to leave it be just as it is. I've totally slacked off on my updates, and it's been a month since I was in New Orleans. I have a pretty good long-term memory, so I'll be able to recount the events as they were. Names and specific occurrences, may have become blurry, but we'll see what we can come up with.

After feeling out the vibes and scoping out the scene, we ended up at the Mermaid Lounge for the Charlie Hunter Show. I'd never seen him, so this was the perfect set and setting for this event. I checked to see if I could table inside, while Keith managed to carry in a drum for Charlie, but then he went back outside!

D'oh! When I realized what happened, I almost couldn't believe it. A poor show-going hippie's rule of thumb is that "If you are invited into a show that you can't afford to buy a ticket for, and you get in (for whatever reason) THEN STAY IN!"

Keith to his defence is 19 and in America, you can't go in a bar until you're 21 years old. I didn't really consider that when I invited him to Jazz Fest, so he was kind of bummed about the bar-scene reality. The kicker is that he doesn't even drink, so he wouldn't have been a threat to himself or society by getting all wasted anyways.

Keith was happy to sleep in the pop-top. It had been a long drive, and we were both pretty beat. I made some trades at the door to get in. I'd picked up some tee shirts that have a D.L. "Roman Numeral" 420: CDXX on the front and that Jimmy Carter quote about "the penalties not being worse than the effects of the drug" on the back.

I got re-energized by dancing, which is a great way to fight fatigue. Charlie Hunter was really good. I didn't know he was a drummer. I love drums, drummers and drumming. He busted out a Tamboura and went to town on that. Drums can be small, big, simple or very complex, and they all have a place in the sphere of music. I believe the same can be said about drummers. Drums are universal, and appeal in some way to nearly every one. My grandmother, A.K.A. Mormor (Danish for Mother's Mother) is one of those people who doesn't resonate with the drumming. She likes jazz (which, incidentally has drums in it).

We slept beside a park that had some nice Oak trees growing in it. The road was fairly quiet, so we could sleep in late.

The next morning we did some e-mailing at a Fair Trade Organic coffee shop in an art space. Keith was able to contact his girlfriend, they were both online at the same time. He was really relieved to talk with her because it had been some time, and neither of them really knew what was up? She was going to school in Santa Cruz, had her van impounded that she lived in, so now was camping out in the woods. He decided to leave that night on a Greyhound. Love is a powerful force.

Keith and I had one more night, as his bus was leaving at eleven, heading West towards Texas, and beyond. We had had a really good travel together. It had been about a week since we left Boulder, and there had been lots to fill each day. We had stayed longer in Lawrence than expected, waiting for the papers to come. But that was O.K. because of our friends Daniel and Daylen, the Black Cat Collective, the University, the Bluegrass, and everything else. We decided to go out for dinner and saw a place called Siam. It had lots of Veggie options and a great vibe to the place. We parked Hemphry up the street, and on the way back, we bumped into some interesting cats on the street. They told us of Pay What You Can figure drawing over at the Ark. They told us that Food Not Bombs was cooking there too, and that was a real eyebrow raiser. Food Not Bombs, eh? How could we resist?

We found FNB busy preparing a meal, while several people were busy separating dry pinto beans from rice, which had been combined'en masse. Several methods, similar to panning for gold were employed and soon several of us were sprawled out on the floor picking the beans out of rice. The meal is served at Jackson Sq. every Tuesday night at 9 p.m.ish. A FNBer named Ariel offered to drive Keith over to the bus after dropping off the food. That was cool, because Hemphry was parked right outside of Café Brazil and the area promised to be quite the hopping vibe.

I walked back to the van, and proceeded to set up the booth right outside of Hemphry. Everybody said I wouldn't get hassled and they were right. No hassles and a really good time hanging out with locals and visitors, alike. I got the downlow on the local Million Marijuana March, y'know, the time and place. I met lots of really interesting folks who were in town for the music, or just to be in N'awlins. One dready guy sticks out because he asked about the partner for boot I had on the table. I use a boot for my donation receptacle, while waiting for the right foot. Well, the left wasn't far behind, and before we knew it, Squirrel had a new pair of boots. He knew exactly what kind they were, because he wore a pair exactly like those when he used to jump out of Airplanes in Central America. He told me he shot little brown guys for Ronald Regan. His eyes corroborated his story. Squirrel had been changed forever by going to war. I asked him if he thought we should be at war right now, and he said Naw-aw, while shaking his head.

As a visitor to this land, I'm still shocked sometimes by the militancy of this nation. There's bases everywhere, and it's not uncommon to be in the same social sphere as people in the military. The really amazing thing is that it's not "weird" for people to be living in such a militarized land. I can remember as a child, growing up in Niagara Falls, we had American Military planes flying overhead, breaking the sound barrier, sometimes performing tactical manoeuvres. I used to think it was cool. I'd never met any of those pilots before. Now when I'm back there, and they're flying around, it freaks me out. My opinion toward war has changed a lot since I was a child.

I used to watch G.I. Joe. I got them for Christmas, and I played with them. I'd never killed anyone before, but I watched lots of movies where people were killed and the killers were emulated. I used to love Rambo. When my mom was pregnant with Emily, we wanted to name the new baby Rambo. My stepdad really liked war movies too, but I know he's not gone to war either.

When I think of it, I haven't met many soldiers who liked going to war. Most vets I've met seemed to not like their experiences of causing death, and escaping death, and facing death when their friends and co-workers became casualties. Imagine what it's like for the civilians of whichever land it is that Uncle Sam is "liberating."

I saw Signal Path that night, the same band I spent some time with in San Francisco. It's cool hooking up again with bands I've met/seen in different places along the way. The circles in life are ever-present and ever-expanding. Signal Path was great. They started really late and played until early the next morning. I left as it was getting light while the band kept playing on.

The next day, just as I parked the van in front of the hotel, Dave Marcus (big bossman), His wife, Raddah, and Rolly, the Head Rolling Papers Salesguy showed up in a taxi-cab. What timing!

After checking in and chilling, we went for a stroll of the French Quarter. We saw a glass-blowing shop and studio, and we just had to look. It had been a long time since I had touched some soft glass, and I tell ya? I've been aching to get back into the studio.

The group of us found ourselves in the House of Blues patio for a delicious meal. They really do know how to cook down there. It was quite a flipswitch for me. Having been dumpster diving, food not bombing, and generally frugal when it came to spending, to all of a sudden being wined and dined on Dave's expense account. I had a bit of mental resistance to it at first, having become quite comfortable being less of a con$umer. Manors and quite honestly, appreciation brought down my internal blockages to this type of treatment. For me, Jazzfest was a bit of a bonus for a job well done, by spending good time in the Bay Area, and for Hemphry's safe arrival in New Orleans. Accepting kindness and gifts with grace can be a hard thing to accomplish. I'm working on it.

After dropping some papers off with the Soulive Crew, and picking up a case of those Make Jazz Not War CD's we were on our way to see George Clinton and the P'funk. As we were travelling through the Hood between Tippitina's Uptown and the CBD(Central Business District), Dave spotted a corner store that would be a perfect store for Pure Hemp. We stopped the van and went in. I waited in a line consisting of black men carrying single bottles and cans of beer, malt liquor, and wine. It was a steady stream. I arrived at the counter, gave my spiel, and they weren't interested. He wouldn't budge, because they had Zig-Zag and Job and no one asks for Pure Hemp.

Unphased, we headed back to the van to go to see the P-funk. As I started the van, nothing happened. It wouldn't start, wouldn't even fire. There was juice, but no umph. We tried bump starting him with the help of several locals, to no avail. Now we were down the sideroad, further into the hood. With a vacant field and Projects on our left and an uninhabited building on our right, the voices of many people who'd said not to go off the beaten trail, and the worry and fear associated with the impoverished areas of New Orleans began to echo in my head. Well, we were in a fix. After a few minutes, we decided to try to bumpstart it one more time. As they started pushing, a brother, came walking along. I asked if he would help, and he was right on it. We got rolling, and as I put it in gear, nothing happened. We were stuck there. The guy's name was Joe, and he said he'd stay with us until we got out of here.

He was like "Y'awl don't know, You don't want to be here." "I'll stay with y'awl until y'awl get outta here." At some point, we called CAA, who said they'd be here in about an hour. In the meantime another brother named Manuel came over and started hanging out with us. We all got to interact and be normal with each other, which is something I think we all kind of want. It was a really neat experience. We talked about World Peace and how it starts right here. Raddah, and Rolly went to the store to buy the boys the drinks they were on their way to buy. For Five dollars, they bought a bottle of wine, a fifth of liquor, and a bottle of Coke. With prices like that, what's the motivation not to be a daily alcoholic. When the reality around you is run down and dangerous and pot-holed, and boarded up and littered, why not be drunk or whacked out every day.

Where is the way out for so many of America's people? How does one find hope or inspiration when it's just a concrete bleakness all around? These are some tough questions, but we better get hip to finding some solutions to the causes of the problems, so these cycles are not perpetuated and repeated. How long will it be before America's inner cities breed suicide bombers? Will anyone ask why? How come the world's freest country has such a growing prison population? And what sort of "Justice System" profits from holding prisoners?

The tow-truck came and loaded Hemphry up onto the back of it. Rolly and I got to ride in Hemphry on the back of the flatbed. That was cool, except the lights were blinding so we had to duck down and cover our eyes.

We made it to George Clinton about halfway through. That started a blurry run of lots of great shows. It's impossible for me to convey to y'awl of the awesome music that happened in New Orleans, but I'll list it now, and there should be some corresponding footage. Check it out! George Clinton at the Saenger Theatre, Soulive at Tippitina's Uptown, Particle on the Cajun Queen. I missed jazz fest to deal with a brokedown Hemphry Spearhead at the Howlin' Wolf Karl Denson at the House of Blues late nite I missed Jazzfest incl. Panic because I slept late and no one else was heading to the fairgrounds in our group. I took the time to prepare materials for the Million Marijuanna March. We saw Soulive Late-night at Twiroppa. I dosed, and then I just wanted to live where there was pure water and clean air (it's a recurring theme). I made it to the fairgrounds for the Sunday, and I loved it! The vibes were great, and there was so much good music and we weren't in a smokey bar. I spent a lot of time by the Native American Stage. It was good. If I'm back in New Orleans for Jazzfest, I vow to spend more energy in the day at the actual fairgrounds and less energy out and about until all hours of the morning! All things considered, it was a kickass time and I really appreciate it. Thanks Dave and Co.

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Johannes Chapman, Pure Hemp Caravaner
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