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I suspect that one day, when I look back on my life in Baton Rouge, one of the sweetest memories will be the years I spent living in Spanish Town, the fantastic little neighborhood that manages to thumb its nose at political correctness under the very nose of the city’s power structure.

The neighborhood is like a John Steinbeck novel, full of scoundrels, imps and n’er do wells, with enough kind souls to look after them all. I lived there for three years almost a decade ago, and I still miss the place.

Even then the humble Capital Grocery was its nucleus—a bit unkempt, yet essential. The neighborhood’s students, lobbyists, retirees and hair stylists walked there for milk, beer and gossip.

On one day a year the neighborhood invites the entire city in for the party. Careers, commerce and productivity all screech to a roaring, glorious halt, and political correctness gets chucked out the window.

Even the day’s approach would lift my spirits, like the approach of Christmas when I was a child. Once the day arrived I couldn’t wake up early enough.

I wasn’t alone in that. My roommate groaned aloud his reluctance to help prep the house for the onslaught of guests, his pounding head buried in his pillow from too much celebration the night before at Southdowns parade, which always presented a stiff party-stamina dilemma.

“Philip, wake up!” I shouted through his door.

“I need funk!” came the muffled reply.

Like some twisted party doctor, I selected what I still believe to be the perfect selection for that moment: Put the Funk Back In It, a particularly stinky groove by the Brand New Heavies of Britain. My roommate was up and at ‘em in about three minutes, a record.

But across the street, something more significant was stirring. A party was born right before our eyes. Our neighbor, Drew Tessier, along with his father, Pat, invited some friends to their rambling yard.

They created a beast that still rages today. Two, sometimes three bands routinely play to a yard-full of swaying, dancing strangers as cauldrons of jambalaya simmer and a dozen icy kegs get slurped up.

Like the neighborhood, the Tessier party is a beacon to all, bringing together Democrats and Republicans, young and old, white and black, straight and gay, city and country. Sprinkle in a healthy dose of freaks, bikers and even the occasional sworn political enemy, and you get the picture.

I still go to the Tessier party any chance I can. I marvel at its scale, at the unbelievable mixture of people gathered there. And as dusk creeps in over the oblivious, dancing throng, I say to myself, “Now that’s a party.”

Tom Guarisco is editor of 225 magazine. he spent his childhood in Scotland, where “a wee blether” is simply a little chat.