Thursday, February 14, 2013

Mardi Gras 2013


Mardi Gras 2013

Below is a photo of our crew of antediluvian Mardi Gras regulars as we emerged from dinner Saturday night at Arnaud's.  I had arrived directly from the airport accounting for the presence of my luggage.  The young lady who took the photo queried, "What's in the suitcase gramps?  Oxygen?" Having been suitably humbled, we were off and running.
 
 


Earlier that afternoon, the TSA-driver's-license-checking-guy at the airport glanced up at me, and said in a dull monotone, "It appears you are who you are." As I passed, I muttered, "It would certainly be a bitch if I weren't."

My flight arrived at Louis Armstrong Airport about 20 minutes early, which was pleasing.  I caught a cab with no wait, so all was going well until my knuckleheaded cab driver dropped me off 8 blocks distant from Arnaud's.  I knew he missed the correct turn when we passed the Super Dome on my left rather than on my right.  Worse, I was on the wrong side of Canal Street, which at that very moment was hosting the Endymion parade that follows a horseshoe shaped route through the central business district. I was in the middle of the horseshoe.  The parade's path was lined by steel barricades behind which throngs of humanity were stacked 10+ deep.  I called my host, now situated comfortably at the bar at Arnaud's, to describe my dilemma.  As the crow flies I was about 200 yards from my destination, but I was no crow.  He comforted me by noting, "You're screwed.  Endymion is a huge parade that goes on forever. Definitely avoid going upstream, as that will take you to some very bad parts of town."

I navigated downstream with the flow of the parade, pulling my roller bag and was quickly reminded why we never go to parades.  A few times I tried to get up to the barriers, but people wouldn't give an inch. I spotted a lady on a ladder and asked if she knew of any crossing points.  She told me of such a spot about 1/2 mile farther away from my destination, and I was off. The sidewalk afforded but one lane of traffic, so it was slow going. The lady was correct, and I found the intersection where the police let people scurry across at 30-minute intervals.  I waited patiently until the allotted time, crossed through the tuba section of the LSU band, and eventually made my way across Canal into the French Quarter.

The detour around the parade cost me over an hour and added a couple of miles of hiking through a stew of beads, confetti, spilt beer, and Lord knows what human detritus, but I finally arrived at Arnaud's, an elegant oasis of civility where I was cordially greeted by friends and the highly professional staff. 

Charles, the maitre de extraordinaire, came to the table to take our drink orders and then returned with lagniappe he had personally prepared to take the edge off our appetites while we enjoyed our beverages.  The dish he presented was a generous portion of chilled shrimp, cut into small pieces, blended with chopped, crisp yellow bell peppers, parsley, cilantro, olive oil, salt and pepper.  The simple dish comprised of fresh ingredients was ever so tasty.  Unpleasant thoughts of the previous hour's adventure receded quickly.

After dinner we headed to Patrick's Bar Vin, a very elegant wine bar recently opened by our eponymous friend.  Patrick greeted us warmly, brought us a fine bottle of wine and introduced us to some interesting people, including a travel writer who was checking out his place.  She was overwhelmingly unimpressed when I told her of my own meager efforts with the pen and expressed nary a molecule of interest in NNAOPP.  She haughtily explained, as though speaking to an auditorium full of rapt listeners, "Everyone says they want to be a travel writer, but it's like saying, 'I want to be a movie star.' You'll get over it." 

We returned to our quarters in the Quarter around 1 pm and were pleasantly surprised to observe swarms of young people out at that hour.  I encountered two college-aged couples from the NYC area who were sitting on our doorstep.  We chatted for a bit, and one of the guys said, "You'll never guess what I do for a living?" and he was right.  He then told me he was a professional pickler, which prompted me to share with him my ancient past life as a pickle magnate wannabe with the DeGraffenreid Pickle Company.  It's truly a small world when pickle(d) people can come together.

The forecast was for rain on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, but fortunately it was warm on Sunday, with no rain.  We were joined on the balcony by KC friends of one of our crew, including two young couples in their 30's.  The ladies quickly established themselves as cunningly skilled bead for boob traders.  Our efforts paled in comparison, so we just stood back and let our attractive guests work their magic.

After observing nine Mardi Gras's one would think you've pretty well seen it all.  Not so.  Mid-afternoon we saw two young ladies promenading beneath our balcony attired only in G-strings and a few strokes of body paint, one of whom was eight months pregnant.  This undoubtedly served as a useful anatomy lesson for the children present.

We paid close attention to a large black man apparently costumed to look like a menacing, homeless man with disheveled clothing.  His hair appeared to have been styled with electric-chair-juice, and he held a sign saying, "Shitty Advice $1."  This is truly a testament to absolute truth in advertising.

On Sunday, after a stroll around the Quarter, I returned by walking past our balcony and observed that Patrick was visiting along with a large, dark haired woman I didn't recognize.  When I entered the apartment I realized it was our transgender acquaintance.  She greeted me warmly as I walked out on the balcony and said, "Remember me?"

"Of course."  And she gave me a big hug, indicating she hadn't read my book.  Since she is substantially bigger, younger, and stronger than I, she might have first thrashed me and then thrown my bloodied carcass off the balcony in repayment for my unkind portrayal.  I almost felt badly after her gracious greeting, but quickly recovered.  As they were leaving, Patrick, the mischievous scamp, suggested he might share his copy of NNAOPP with his companion, insuring a future, unpleasant encounter.

We dined at Mr. B's Bistro on Sunday night and were served by a remarkably enthusiastic server, Len.  In addition to enjoying a fabulous meal, perhaps even better than the night before at Arnaud's, Len regaled us with funny tales all told with enthusiasm.

The evangelists were out in full force preaching to the accumulation of sinners.  Fortunately, they weren't using microphones and weren't too much of a distraction.  I did notice one noteworthy addition to their banners listing the various classes of miscreants who are doomed to eternal damnation.  This year, church gossips were added to masturbators, fornicators, adulterers, abortionists, Muslims, Catholics, Baptists, and a lengthy list bound to include most everyone.

From our balcony I espied a woman dressed (using the term loosely) as a nun.  She wore a standard wimple and veil covering her head, but was topless with small painted black crosses serving as tiny pasties.  I ordinarily don't take photos, but would have made an exception in this case, as I was thinking this would make a perfect posting for my blog www.nudenuns.blogspot.com.  The site would no longer disappoint the porn seekers from the United Arab Emirates who occasionally visit.  Sadly, she was walking briskly, and I didn't get a chance to capture the moment.

On MG afternoon I took my normal stroll around the French Quarter taking in the sites, sounds, and smells.  I kept running into a guy with an elaborate costume dressed like the Pope.  He made himself noticed by flipping people the bird, and greeted all passersby who glanced at him with a non-Pope-like, "f___off."  One guy shouted at him, "I thought you retired."  Predictably the Pope replied, "f___off." 

We went to Patrick's Bar Vin every evening before and after dinner for fellowship.  Before packing it in on Lundi Gras evening we walked by Pat O'Brien's and stopped to admire the work product coming out of the body-painting kiosk across the street.  I chatted with a pretty young lady who was rightfully proud of her unclad, but painted, torso.  She told us that she was a member of the KOE (Krewe of Elvis) and was eagerly looking forward to their upcoming parade.  She said, "Look for me, I'll be dressed like Elvis." From our vantage point we could see the naked back of a whale-sized woman in the process of being artistically altered.  In an uncharacteristic display of cattiness, I asked the young lady, "Do you think they charge more for circus-tent-sized paint jobs?" 

She said, "That's my Mom!"  And it was.

Is this a great country or what?

Chuck


Charles A. Wells, Jr.
3317 W. 68th Street
Shawnee Mission, KS 66208
816 289-1924
Author of: Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People
Now available in all ebook formats at:  http://www.smashwords.com/b/96530
and in print and Kindle format at  http://www.amazon.com
Available at:
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  Architectural Salvage, 2045 Broadway, Kansas City, MO
  Sanibel Island Bookshop, 1571 Periwinkle, Sanibel, FL
  Twisted Sisters Eclectic Gifts and Floral, Albany, MO
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