Mardi Gras 2018
The
Friday before Mardi Gras is a big deal for the locals. Lunch spots at the nicer restaurants in the
city are coveted and spoken for years in advance. Our friend, Patrick, owner of Patrick Bar Vin
enjoys his busiest day of the year. My
host has reserved a table for clients and friends at the Rib Room for a dining
/ drinking extravaganza for the past decade.
We arrived at 11 am and were welcomed with bloody Mary’s in the festive
lounge. Around noon we moved to our
table for cocktails. All the guests
brought one or two bottles of their best wine to share. The eight of us would subsequently down
thirteen bottles during our four-hour, four-course lunch, mindful of
Hemingway’s 1920’s memoir, A Moveable Feast.
The
ensuing conversations are always interesting and enlightening. Out of the blue, my nearest table mate, the
managing partner of a NOLA consulting engineering firm, said, “Never use the
words ‘dirt, mud, or muck’, it’s always soil and be descriptive.” I assured him I would keep that in mind. Then one of our group, geo-technical engineer
from NYC added, “My soils professor at Northwestern warned us on the first day
of his class, ‘If you ever use the word dirt in this class, you will fail.’” The two engineers then discovered they had
the same professor, although at different schools.
I
asked Walter, another regular in the event, if he were a native of NOLA. He then shared the following glimpse into his
family’s past. His ancestors immigrated to NOLA early in the
19th century from Germany.
His great, great grandfather was a civil war general. He graduated in the same West Point class as
Robert E. Lee. Shortly thereafter he left the military and became a civil
engineer. He returned to the army to
fight in the Mexican war and again returned to the civilian life of an engineer
in NOLA until the Civil War broke out.
He signed up with the Confederate cause and was quickly promoted from
colonel to brigadier general and served in both the eastern and western
theatres of the war. His wife, Walter’s great, great grandmother, was in
Charleston, SC., when Sherman’s Army took possession of the city. She hid in a convent with her children, wore
a nun’s attire, and told the invaders that she was running an orphanage. The Union officer who found her bought the
story and gave her ration coupons. Many
years after the war, the general and his wife met the same officer while dining
in a NOLA restaurant. He remembered the
encounter, and they laughed over the shared remembrance from grimmer
times. And such is the richness of
family histories.
It
was warm and the crowds were boisterous, and the Rib Room luncheon again served
as the perfect kickoff for Mardi Gras 2018.
On
Saturday morning, we were hosted by a friend to a brunch at Stanley’s located
off Jackson Square. I enjoyed the
breakfast fried seafood special featuring shrimp, softshell crab, oysters, complimenting
a generous serving of eggs Benedict. It
was possibly the best, and most filling, breakfast dish ever.
We
share a balcony with John, Karen, and DeAnn.
They hail from Yazoo City, MS. They
are delightful neighbors, and we find ourselves mixing easily with the crowds
that gather in their apartment. On Saturday their guests included a boy about
twelve and a girl aged ten, both nice kids and enthusiastic participants in the
festivities. The little girl dispensed
beads generously and would occasionally freak out when one of her recipients
began to disrobe. She’d shriek, “No! no!
no! That’s for those guys.” and point to
us.
Late
on Saturday afternoon a well-endowed woman sashayed topless and stopped beneath
our balcony. People would approach and have
their pictures taken with her. She was there for 5 or 10 minutes before I
noticed that our new 12-year-old balcony neighbor had gone down to street level
to have his picture taken with the exhibitionist. Her soldiers stood proud and firm at the
boy’s eye level, each roughly equal in size to his head. I’m thinking, “Is this even legal?” When his Mom discovered his youthful perfidiousness,
she instructed him to delete the photo.
We watched with amusement and a fairly high degree of certainty that the
photo(s) still exists.
On
Saturday and Sunday, a superb Dixieland group plays virtually all day about two
doors to the left of our balcony. Anywhere
from five to nine musicians perform at any given time. Their clarinetist was truly terrific. About three doors to our right, a juggler
performed. During the finale of his act
he balanced on a board that rests on a north/south facing wooden cylinder that
in turn rests on an east/west facing cylinder, and then juggled swords. He always drew a large and appreciative
crowd. The best part of his act was that
it was quiet.
Occasionally
one gets an unexpected break. On Sunday,
two tall, thin, androgynous looking young men assembled in the alcove of M.S. Rau
Antique shop situated across Royal Street, cattycorner from our balcony. One was white, one black, both shirtless and
heavily tattooed. One wore a sarong, and
the other black leather lederhosen. They
chatted amiably with passersby for nearly an hour before their intentions
became clear. They set up two card
tables and chairs and a sign saying ‘Nipple Glitter’. Quickly a line formed of young women eager
for such a treatment. The application
only took a few minutes. But the drying
time takes a bit longer offering pleasing peeks.
In
case you might someday wish to establish a similar enterprise in your
neighborhood, here’s how these skilled operators applied their craft. First, they would cup the breast in one hand
and apply glue to the nipple with a small paint brush. Next, they would pour some glitter into the
palm of their hand, hold it close to the intended target, and blow gently.
After
an initial burst of activity, the female customer base faltered and the young
men started attracting male customers and then face painting. One of the many
evangelical Christian groups set up free face painting stands across the street
from the lads, but it didn’t appear to negatively impact their business.
Rex
and Zulu parades are the top of the pecking order in NOLA society. Rex mostly white, Zulu mostly black. In days gone by it was mandated that everyone
riding on Mardi Gras floats wear masks, excepting blacks, who were forbidden to
wear masks. Then they changed the rules
to mandate that blacks also wear masks, but the blacks responded, and I
paraphrase, ‘Bite me.’ Now Zulu is the
only parade whose participants do not wear masks, but instead most blacks and all
whites riding on Zulu floats wear black face.
Monday
was cold and gray, so we decided to go to the WWII museum. This is a ‘must see’ attraction if you’re
ever in NOLA. We rode by Lee Circle en route
to the museum which is now conspicuous by the absence of the statue of the
former Confederate general. The tall
marble column in the center of the circle stands starkly naked.
Mardi
Gras day was warm and sunny; the crowds were large and festive; and we all
agreed, it was the best year ever in the boobs for beads banter and barter
category. This year’s most effective line of bs went something like this:
“You
can have these beads, but we have to see your boobs.”
“I
couldn’t possibly do that.”
“It’s
the rule. Those are the official Mardi
Gras Rules. We don’t make them up, we
just comply.”
“Okay
then.” Flash.
I
thought our advanced age might be an impediment, but such was not the case.
Three
of the four members of our Mardi Gras quartet might be thought of as scientifically
proficient: two are geo-technical engineers, and one is a dentist. I qualify only by having once taken physics
in high school from Mr. Kahler.
Accordingly, we continually seek to learn from systematic observation,
measurement, and experiment, and the continual formulation, testing, and
modification of hypotheses. Here is what
we have garnered from the application of the scientific method to Mardi Gras
day behavior:
Alcohol
increases licentiousness. Merrymakers
promenading beneath our balcony typically start drinking around 10 am, but it’s
several hours later before the ladies are sufficiently impaired to denudate. The refrain that remains music to our ears,
“Here, honey, hold my drink,” freeing both hands for the lift.
Music
plays a big part in the transaction.
Around 3 pm a karaoke mini-float parked right in the middle of the
intersection of St. Peter and Royal.
They started singing the Queen classic, “Bohemian Rhapsody” (quite badly
if I do say so), but hundreds of people joined in the singing, and the
partygoers emerged in a frenzy. From that
moment until dark, we enjoyed a veritable plethora of bared breasts. The four of us could barely keep up with
those beseeching beads. One needed multiple sets of eyes and an ammo runner to keep
‘abreast’ of the phenomenon.
The
quality of beads is important. By 3 pm
we are displaying our very best beads.
When those have been exchanged, we work down the line. By 5 even semi-decent trinkets are sufficient
to engender the desired response. By the
time the crowd lessened we were basically out of beads. We each kept some to wear to dinner, and that
was that.
Age
doesn’t matter. Young and old and
everything in between were willing to share their wares. A first for us this year was a trifecta of a
grandmother, mother, daughter. It’s
pretty darn special when three generations share common pursuits.
A
few other tidbits. Weather does matter. Warm is good, cold is bad. Bustiers are
an insurmountable hindrance to our purposes.
Women with boob jobs are understandably eager to share the objects of
their investment. Crowds draw
crowds. Once a group forms begging for
beads, others join in creating a scene mindful of fish farm trout at feeding
time.
We
are not total ogres as we dispensed chum freely to all until we ran out, and we
gave toy footballs to little boys and battery lit tiaras to little girls.
Our
transgender acquaintance was back in town.
Through a mutual friend we learned she is now happily married, to a man. She sauntered past our balcony a few times,
but fortunately, we saw her before she saw us, and in a manly manner, we
retreated inside failing to respond to her entreaties, “I know you’re in
there.”
My
cousin Sue from Columbus stopped by our balcony for a brief visit. She was in NOLA for business, came a little
early, and we were fortunate to have a brief reunion on our balcony on Mardi
Gras day. Thanks for stopping by Sue.
For those with an interest in our dining spots,
here is a quick rundown in meal order:
Doris’ Steak House, Rib Room, Stella’s, Arnaud’s, Royal House, Italian
Barrel, Mr. B’s, GW Finn, Central Grocery, and Rib Room. It’s a real toss up as to which is my
favorite, but I’d have to go with Arnaud’s.
Part
of getting older is the tendency to reflect on what makes something
special. It’s not the boobs for bead
thing. It’s not the great food and wine. It’s not the assemblage of wacky
people and their costumes. It’s not the skilled street performers and
musicians. It’s not even the experience of my first viewing of skilled nipple
glitter applicators. It’s just getting together with dear friends and laughing
at shared old memories and making new ones.
Jim and Mary’s Cat
Jim
and Mary decided they would like to invite a cat to join their household. They wished to avoid the kitten phase and
visited their local animal shelter to survey the options. Finding none, they explored private
placements offered through Craigslist.
Their first visit was to the home of a young lady who had recently moved
in with her Mother, only to find her new host was terribly allergic to
cats.
Upon
the first viewing of Tubbs, Jim and Mary knew this was the cat of their
dreams. He is smallish, with a velvety black
coat accented by white socks. I can
personally attest that Tubbs is a most handsome feline. The young woman agreed to the transfer, and
Jim and Mary traveled home with their new companion.
It
takes a while for a cat, or anyone for that matter, to adjust to totally new
surroundings and housemates. Tubbs was
no exception, so he would tend to wander off finding private spots in his new
house.
On
Tubb’s first day in his new home Mary departed to run errands. Jim was observing Tubbs while sitting in one
of a pair of IMG leather reclining chairs.
He fell asleep, and upon awaking, he couldn’t find Tubbs. He looked all around the house, but to no
avail. Eventually, he heard a soft sound coming from one of the recliners. He investigated and found that Tubbs had
entangled himself in the motor mechanism of the chair and was frozen in place.
Jim
tried unsuccessfully to free Tubbs who was becoming increasingly frantic. Eventually he gave up and called 911. What happened next requires some
context. Jim is a survivor of open heart
surgery and several other dreadful remedies to various ailments. They have developed close relationships with
their neighbors. Many are retirees and
are often at home or in their yards puttering around the way oldsters do.
And
so, they were alarmed when the fire truck and EMT’s arrived at Jim’s house,
thinking the worst had happened. Mary
was highly alarmed and agitated when she arrived to see her driveway blocked by
two emergency vehicles. But upon entering she noticed three young firemen lying
on her family room floor attempting to free Tubbs from the recliner. And they succeeded.
That
was several months ago. Tubbs is now
well adjusted to his new surroundings.
He loves to be petted and will sit peacefully purring in a welcoming
lap. He will not, however, go near the
Norwegian leather recliners.
Letter’s from Santa
We
were dining at Indian Hills Country Club a few weeks before Christmas with
Lucy, Fred, and the kids. Everything was
decorated festively, and the staff had a colorful mailbox set out specifically
for letters to Santa. Forms were
conveniently supplied requesting one’s name, age, and gift request. The kids eagerly filled out their forms and
placed them with care in the mailbox.
Seven-year-old
Finn then asked me, “Papa, don’t you want to ask for something from Santa?”
I
pondered for a moment and then replied, “I’d like a Wood-Mizer LT35 Sawmill
with hydraulics.”
Finn
said, “How do you spell ‘hydraulics’?”
A
few days later I received the following semi-customized form letter, which I
have abbreviated:
“Dear
Chuck,
I
understand that you’ve been a good little boy this year. My how you’ve grown now that you’re 72. I hope you find a Wood-Mizer LT35 with
hydraulics under your Christmas tree this year.
Santa
North
Pole”
Miscellaneous
Sales
of Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People and Ordinary People Who Aren’t
continue to trickle in, but I remain short of besting Melville. Thanks for getting me this far.
All
the best,
Chuck
p.s. If you go to my blog http://www.ordinarypeoplewhoarent.blogspot.com
it
will link you to a slide / audio presentation about Building Finn and Charlie’s
Cabin. Take a gander if you’ve an
interest.
Charles A. Wells, Jr.
3317 W. 68th Street
Shawnee Mission, KS 66208
816 289-1924
Author of: Ordinary People Who Aren't: An Anthology and
Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People
Follow my blog at: Available at:
Rainy Day Books, 2706 W. 53rd Street, Fairway, KS
