Mardi Gras
2020
I’m
closing in on my 20th anniversary of attending Mardi Gras in NOLA as
the guest of a dear friend whose apartment offers the single best vantage point
from which to view and participate in the celebration. It occurred to me that about the only thing
that has changed from my first trip is that I’m older. Everything else has
stayed pretty much the same: insanely
loud, colorful, funny, fun, great food, and mildly titillating.
On
Lundi Gras I was taking my customary stroll around the French Quarter taking in
the sounds and sights. I was descending
the stairs that run from the Mississippi River levy down to a promenade across
Decatur Street from Jackson Square. A
big black guy with a round head and fuzzy short hair was ascending, so I got a
perfect view of his dome. His coiffure
was dyed green, and he had a pattern cut into scalp in such a manner that his
head looked exactly like a tennis ball.
My costume of faded cranberry shorts, a borrowed tee shirt stenciled, “I’ve
Got a Good Heart / But
the Mouth,” and flip flops
paled in comparison.
A
few minutes later I espied a young guy with long hair and beard, dressed like
Jesus, but incongruously playing an electric guitar. His case was nearly full of dollar bills
labelled, “Tithings.” A half a block
down Chartres a man dressed in a Scottish kilt was playing bagpipes, but his
music was being drowned out by two young black kids beating on plastic barrels
with drumsticks. Neither party seemed to
notice the other.
On
Friday we had our customary 5-hour lunch at the Rib Room with friends. It is always great fun to catch up with
people I see but once a year. Alcohol
was served in abundance and continues to serve as an excellent social
lubricant. Six of the nine diners are
engineers or construction executives working in NOLA, so the collapse of the
Hard Rock Hotel was an early topic of conversation. For those with an interest here are some of the
theories mentioned:
- The tragedy was attributable to a
combination of errors.
- The steel structure was grossly
under-engineered, a consequence of corner cutting ‘design build method’ and a
‘low bid’ winner on the engineering work.
- Construction blunders occurred including
premature removal of shoring and simultaneously staging steel above uncured
concrete floors.
- A city inspector who falsified her
inspections, and who was certified only for residential construction.
There
were three fatalities and two bodies remain in the still-partially-standing structure,
one of which is visible from the street as the covering has blown away. It’s a mess
It
was well after dark when we concluded our lunch. Patrick’s bar was too crowded so we decided
to return to the apartment. First, we
stopped for snacks at Rouse’s grocery store across the street. While waiting to pay, we were standing behind
two young guys. Both were extremely pale
and gaunt. One was wearing a large backpack that had two small hula hoops
strapped to the back. Being curious, I
inquired, “Forgive me for intruding, but what’s with the small hula hoops?”
The
hula hoop guy had a wispy red beard, couldn’t have been over 22, and was
dressed in grunge, the uniform of choice for the counter culture crowd. His colleague/companion wore a cheap, white
fur coat loosely covering his bare, hirsute torso. The red bearded lad turned toward me purposefully
penetrating my comfort zone and said, “Come outside, and I’ll show you what I
can do with these hoops?”
“You’re
not going to mug me, are you?”
“No,
you silly.”
We
walked out to the sidewalk between Rouse’s and the vacant body painting kiosk,
and the guy unfolded the two small hoops forming them into one. Then he performed one of the most amazing
hula hoop performances in all of world history. After some conventional moves, he leaned way
back, limbo like, and twirled the plastic tube with the underside of his
nose. I’m not making this up. Then he bounced the hoop off the wall of
Rouse’s and caught the carom with his beak.
He finished with a few flourishes, the hoop going up and down his body
with the grace of Mikhail Baryshnikov.
We were pretty well amazed and applauded enthusiastically, thanked him,
and wished him well. I halfway expected
to see the pair again later in the week as street performers, but no such luck.
Muses / Nyx Parades
One
of our Friday lunch companions is a member of Muses, along with 900 women between
the ages of 21-91. There is a waiting
list, she is a non-riding member, and it may be a few more years before
qualifying as a rider. Each year she
makes 36 elaborate shoes to give away during the parade. She says she loves getting out her glue gun,
glitter, beads, feathers, and what not in preparation for the festivities.
Nyx
is another women’s parade group, but it is much larger with 3,000 members. They decorate purses for gifts. Sadly, during this year’s parade an entirely
too eager celebrant died trying to retrieve trinkets in between tandem floats
and was crushed to her death, ending the parade barely before it started. Two days later another individual tried
crossing the tongue that links tandem floats in the Endymion Parade, and he was
also killed.
Bead bartering
I
am aware that my musings on the beads for boobs aspect of Mardi Gras is
pleasing to some readers, but less so for others. I’m reminded of accidentally being on a
topless beach with my nine-year-old twin grandsons last summer. Their initial reaction was “gross!” A nearby lady offered wise counsel, “If it
offends you, don’t look.” In a similar
vein, if aggrieved by this topic, please pass on the next section.
As
my host, fellow guest, and I cruise into our mid-70’s, I’ve developed some
disquietude that our geezerly appearance would dampen our ability to trade
cheap Chinese gimgracks for torso exposures.
Providentially, this has not been the case. Saturday morning was our first time on the
balcony. It was chilly, there were few
passersby, no one was drinking, and we didn’t even have a line in the
water. Then what to our surprise while sitting
around scratching our balls and drinking coffee, a group of six women, I’m
guessing in their 40’s, yelled up at us and said, “How about some beads!” We obediently complied, and each of the six
shared a pleasing view of their chests.
It defied all conventional wisdom as groups of women are the least
likely to participate in this silly barter.
In my imagination, here is what happened. The six pals travelled from Minnesota, or
some other cold spot. It was their first
Mardi Gras, and beforehand they vowed to one another, “Let’s just do it.” And they did.
Opportunely we were the beneficiaries.
The
good fortune would continue as both Monday and Tuesday were sunny and
warm. For those interested in the
statistical metrics of this game, here are a few guidelines. The highest probability period is 3 – 4:30
pm. In case anyone doubts the power of
alcohol to lessen one’s inhibitions, it should be noted that by mid-afternoon,
a meaningful portion of French Quarter amblers are stewed to the gills. When a candidate appears already wearing an
abundance of beads, holds a plastic hurricane drink, and is not wearing a
bustier or business suit, it is like hunting in a baited field. Some ladies do try to chisel on the bargain
by showing but one breast, and I must remind them that said body parts
typically come in pairs. Most understand
this logic and willingly comply. We also
had really good beads this year.
Bacchus Parade
My
host and fellow guest decided they would join 1,600 fellow Carnival partygoers
and ride in this year’s Bacchus parade.
A first for both of them. A day
before the Sunday evening launch we journeyed to the gigantic NOLA convention
center, 68 acres under roof to be exact, situated on the banks of the mighty
Mississippi River where preparations were being made.
We
arrived at the appropriate gate and noticed rental trucks loaded with boxes of
beads lined up in the parking lot.
Groups of older, black men stood ready to haul trollies of the trinkets
to the various floats, a scene mindful of the lyrics of the Willie Nelson song,
City of New Orleans, “Passing trains
that have no names, And freight yards full of old black men.”
There
were 36 Bacchus floats staged in order of their appearance. There was a paper map showing how each would
be pulled out of the building into parade readiness. The biggest consisted of four distinct
segments and were 160’ in length, one of which was a giant alligator. The
smallest were single themed and were only 42’.
Giant pallets of beads weighing tons were stacked everywhere. I walked around and was mightily impressed by
the artistry of the assembled carriages.
My
friends climbed on board their cowboy-saloon-themed float and starting
unpacking and staging their plastic treasures, hanging stuff on hooks for easy
access, and getting briefed on what to expect.
There was barely room for the riders. Each conveyance has a lieutenant
and a captain who are responsible for some semblance of order. Costumes and masks are provided along with a
massive assortment of Bacchus beads.
Most of the riders also purchase supplemental novelties. Here are a few rules: Don’t throw any beads or anything until you
get to the parade route. It’s dangerous
attracting kids on streets without any barriers. One must have their mask on at all times.
BTW, they are serious masks that fully cover the face and neck. There is a $500
fine for throwing an entire bag of beads.
Riders must wear a safety harness secured to the float. Each float has a
bartender / porter to assist the riders and two porta potties. The floats typically get to the launch point
several hours before the 5:15 start.
Fortunately, there are several bars nearby.
Afterwards,
my friends reported that they enjoyed the experience but were somewhat shocked
by how busy they were, taking trinkets out of plastic coverings, turning on the
battery-operated baubles, and making the toss.
The parade lasted about 3 hours, then the celebrants returned to the
convention center for a gala ball.
Banjo Plan
I
was left to my own devices on Sunday. I
walked over to Jackson Square for a delicious brunch of fried oysters, poached
eggs, and ham at Stanley’s. I
encountered streets packed with tourists, locals, and an eye-opening assortment
of humanity. A store front sign
accurately declared, “Mardi Gras or just another day at Wal-Mart?” Musicians
played loudly, amplified by car battery powered speakers. A black man shouted at me, “Hey man, you look
like Spielsberg! (sic).” A Catholic Mass procession was entering St. Louis
Cathedral, and the communicants were being heckled by protestors holding signs
and wearing tee shirts calling priests pedophiles and perverts. No one seemed to notice or care.
My
plan was to buckster somewhere in the FQ with my Ome open back banjo. After brunch I scouted out a possible
location where my relatively quiet, clawhammer tunes could be heard. I went back to the apartment and encountered
the first of several problems. The
cacophony of noise coming from the streets was so loud, I couldn’t get my tuner
to register. I solved this by going into
the bathroom with the door closed and got in tune.
I
set up on St. Louis Street by the State Courthouse. I didn’t take a chair, because it was too
much of a hassle, so I just took my banjo in its case, pulled it out, and
started playing a few tunes in Double C while standing. It was sunny and warm, so I was attired in
shorts, a tee shirt, flip flops, and sun glasses rendering me virtually
invisible. A few passersby seemed to
notice that I was playing, nodded with a hint of mild approval, and marched
on. Then a young man set up his electric
guitar just opposite me. In addition to
being good, he was very loud, so I walked over to Chartres Street which was
relatively uncrowded, but was musically occupied by a kid loudly beating a
plastic barrel with drumsticks. It had
never fully registered before how extremely loud it is on the streets, and I
headed back to the apartment no worse for the wear, and the multitudes were
spared another noise maker.
What not
Saturday
night we dressed up and headed to Patrick’s Bar Vin for a cocktail preceding
dinner. Then we crossed Bourbon Street
through a raging river of humanity to dine at Arnaud’s. Once inside, the contrast could not have been
more extreme. Bourbon Street is chaotic,
almost anarchic. In sharp contrast,
Arnaud’s is old world gentility. The two
worlds separated merely by 25 yards of space and a door.
The
crowds on Tuesday were as large as any I can remember. Most everyone was in a festive mood. I mentally speculate on the occupations of
the most outrageously and provocatively attired strollers. Can they all be dental hygienists? The body painting guy appeared to be having a
really bad week, as I encountered few gilded, topless torsos. Microphone aided preachers bombarded the
already noisy streets with their pleadings and were almost always accompanied
by an equally amplified detractor endlessly repeating, “Blah, blah, blah, blah,
blah, blah, blah!”
The
most prestigious parades occur on Lundi Gras evening with the Kings and Queens
of Carnival for Zulu and Rex meet. Rex
represents the blue bloods of white NOLA society. Zulu is the same for the black aristocracy. An interesting distinction is that Zulu allows
white members, but they must wear blackface.
And
that was that. The venue is fun, but the
secret sauce to the Mardi Gras experience was spending time with friends with
an abundance of laughter brightening each day.
Chuck
Charles A. Wells,
Jr.
Author of Nude
Nuns and Other Peculiar People and Ordinary People Who Aren’t
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