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
Follow my blog at: http://www.nudenuns.blogspot.com
Available at:
Rainy Day Books, 2706 W. 53rd Street, Fairway, KS
The Raven Bookstore, 8 East 7th, Lawrence, KS
Architectural Salvage, 2045 Broadway, Kansas City, MO
Sanibel Island Bookshop, 1571 Periwinkle, Sanibel, FL
Twisted Sisters Eclectic Gifts and Floral, Albany, MO
Bruce Smith Drug Store, Prairie Village,
KS
