AUGUST 16, 1977

It was the dog days of summer — highs in the upper 90s, the humidity made the air thick, and life was moving slower than Bayou Vermillion. I was a twenty-something vegan, driving a VW van, and a practicing yogi. I lived in the hip part of town, the St. Streets, at 929 Azalea.  I was enjoying cannabis daily and putting in motion the build-out of a commune in Leonville with friends. My devout Catholic parents thought they had lost me and prayed the rosary every day to “get me back.” It was all so apropos for a Southern artist in the 60s.

If Annamae and Robert were worried about my hippiness, it’s good they didn’t meet my neighbors. Across the street lived a gang of bikers members of the Iron Knights MC. To their left lived a peeping-tom known in the neighborhood as Peep — a nasty, sweaty, sleuth who didn’t like me much, and I wasn’t trying hard to be his friend. The bikers on the other hand were very friendly. They named me Frank. I guess it was a better fit for their hyper-masculine, badass persona. Phil, Don Ray, Jon and Frilo.

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Francis Pavy