Son Of A Gun Gonna Have Big Fun

After our usual Sunday brunch in downtown Norfolk this morning the gang and I trotted on over to Town Pointe Park for the 19th Annual Bayou Boogaloo Festival, where Mike was to be sitting in for the drummer of New Orleans band Wild Magnolias, with less than 24 hours notice ahead of time, so it behoved us to all be there to, you know, root him on. Or heckle him. Or both. Of course heckling is our group's way of rooting each other on. Anyway, photos galore.

Entrance gate to the Town Pointe Park, made up like every annual Boogaloo as some terrifying mutant crawdad crawling up out of the Norfolk sewers brandishing a corn-on-the-cob. I wonder where the city of Norfolk keeps this thing stored for every single year. I vote for it being a permanent fixture all year round as a welcome to our habor park. And to let folks know what fishy smells they're in for when they enter. And that's just the daily stench coming from the habor.

Joe and Dave merrily do the "we're all a-gettin' in free!" dance at the Will Call tent while we stand in line for wristbands, since Mike put us all on the guest list. Hunter, center, strides over after locking her bicycle, and soon does a little dance of her own. That being done, it's time to go find the center stage.

And there it is (I saw Cowboy Mouth play on this stage this time last year with Anita when Vance was still in the band), with Mike in the middle of sound checks and roadies milling about, doing what roadies do. Mike sees us and is apparently on his cell phone, dialing one of us to beckon us over. He's letting us backstage (or rather, Al kind of marched past the gates and led us all back there -- why didn't I just do this at Cowboy Mouth? What kind of twit am I? [don't answer that])

Backstage! The glitz! The galmour! The sound check! MIKE!

A nice full shot of the band as they start to rip into The Meters' "Cissy Strut", and da funk doth commence.

Mike is doing that drummer's overbite thing that always makes me snicker. But he's doing wonderfully for someone who hardly had any time to rehearse, if at all. That's mah boy.

Joe finds a seat directly in front of the stage, while Al (left) and Dave (right) sit with their backs to me.

It's still a little too early for the crowd to start gathering around, but a few people have staked their claim, and it's a pretty nice day, hot if slightly overcast. The bluish tint to everything is from the smoke that has blanketed half of Hampton Roads due to the week-long forest fire out in the Dismal Swamp. Lovely Hunter, right, looks on.

Hunter's clapboard tat. I think AL was pointing at something for me to take a picture of over Hunter's shoulder but this was all I got. I'm just not very deft at all these picture-takin' shenanigans. Oh well, I loves me some Hunter tat!

This lady in the blue dress was blind, stinkin' drunk. How do I know? Because she and this dude stood there swinging and swaying like a coupla hippies with heat stroke...

... when seconds later the woman tumbles backwards, falling straight like a felled tree, legs in the air like a Wyle E. Coyote cartoon. Moments later she was sitting with her legs folding, grumpily rubbing her ankle, and then hopping over to where we were standing, asking Al if he had "a foot of duct tape" on him, and then giving him a tube of cheap drugstore lip gloss. That's how blind, stinkin' drunk she was. But then again I'm sure she wasn't the only one.

Hunter and I did manage to acquire several strings of beads this afternoon, and neither of us had to show our boobies to do so. Who knew that people could actually give me things for keeping my clothes on for a change?

Al wanted me to get a picture of this because he found it extremely amusing, but I had a difficult time trying to get the entire metal archway into the frame. The metal pole which Alvin is sitting next to is part of an enormous, convoluted-looking archway that appears to hold the front of the tent open. The size is pretty much what you'd image the entire tent covering the stage would be...

... and right at the base of the pole, a tiny golden tube with a single sheet of paper, and a sticker that says "Operator's Manual Storage Container". 'Cause iffin ya lose that, dang, you're up merde creek.

Coming down off the hill, Mardi Gras indians! They certainly bring the crowds. The field begins to fill up, and especially the children seem intrigued enough to gather closer.

The indians take the stage with the band, which I think is a regular part of Wild Magnolias' stage routine. Or just an amazing coincidence. Or a reason to call security.

Mike pounding away with a Mardi Gras indian mere inches away. Al told me that this guy in the yellow plummage had the most bodaciously un-Native American-like gold "grill" when he opened his mouth, but every time I tried to snap a picture, he kept his trap tightly shut (like here).

In your face, Pittman! The indians threw more beads, but apparently I catch like a girl just as much as I throw like one, especially with Al being taller than me and all that. Al taunts me with his hard-won prize.

Ladies and things.... we have GRILL!

A stage hand grabs me by the wrist and hauls me up on stage to dance with the band, followed close behind by Dave and Al and Hunter (Joe seems to remain in front of the stage, cheering us on). Here, Al and Hunter bust a move.

Dancing on stage with three Mardi Gras indians in front of a few thousand people at Town Pointe Park is a bit daunting. And sweaty.

Great show, and wacky hijinks to amuse Mike, who is still laughing here after the show as he breaks down his set, as Joe gets in one final jab.

After the show, we sit in the grass along the edge of the park eating sno-cones while watching Dave and Hunter do some kind of synchronized soft-shoe to a zydeco version of "American Woman". Being up on stage has given us the fever. The fever... for daaaaaahhhnce. Well, these two goofballs anyway. I was pooped!

So anyway, a nice afternoon spent along the habor being in good company and walking off brunch. Makes me wonder why I moved away from Norfolk all those years ago.