Throw Me Something To Supplement My Dignity, Mister!

Happy Mardi Gras or some shit. Geez, I hate this time of year in Louisiana. I may not be in New Orleans, but I'm close enough to where all I get to see is crap in purple, green and gold (truly three colours that nature intended to be coordinated), or hear tales of how fucking wasted this guy got when he puked all over the naked girl who was selling her dignity for a string of pretty plastic beads. Hm, that's sort of reminscient of the Indians now that I think about it.

I've only done the Mardi Gras scene one time, and that was purely by accident. Mike and I were planning to spend Valentine's Day peacefully secluded away from all that is hateful in New Orleans. Oops, silly me. It wasn't until I got down there and started trying to find somewhere to park that it occurred to me that V-day happened to coincide with Mardi Gras that year. And I'd wondered why I'd had so much trouble finding a hotel room.

That was quite the experience and one which I'll never forget. How fondly I recall the 30-something year old guy crooning Lynyrd Skynyrd songs to passing floats, including those rockin' jive turkeys KC and the Sunshine Band. Or the battle we had just getting our hotel room. They required three forms of picture ID, a skin sample and a retinal scan just to let us approach the registration desk. Then there was that terrifying trek down Bourbon Street at the witching hour of just before noon, wading ankle-deep in trash past alleyways reeking of alcohol, vomit, urine and some other smells I never hung around long enough to identify. Never before had I seen stalls set up every three feet or so specifically to sell alcohol. I think I saw more than one homeless person selling "beer" from their cardboard box. (I have a personal theory that this is where the stench of urine originated, but to tell you the honest truth, I don't think most of the drunkards would've noticed. In fact, they'd probably think the beer had a really spicy cajun flavour and gone back for more.) Just to add an amusment factor to it all, on every other street corner was a roadside Jesus freak, preaching to the masses about the evils they were succumbing to. The freak usually just got pantsed and drug around the French Quarter for a little while (and that was by the police) before climbing back up on their milk crate to start the cycle all over again. But as I stepped over his flailing, helpless body as the drunken masses tried to use him to stop an oncoming float, I admired his dedication.

I'm hardly a person whose mind naturally turns to religion, however I couldn't help but think of what Sodom and Gamorrah must've been like, and concluding that in all likelihood, it was like a four-year old girl's McDonald's birthday party compared to what I was seeing.

If nothing else, I assured myself that I had missed little by not doing the Mardi Gras thing before that point. It was indeed interesting from a people-watching experience, but one which I don't think I could handle too often. I admit it, it embarassed me on some base "ugh, I share the same scientific clarification as you troglodytes" level.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that I disagree with every aspect of Mardi Gras. I happen to be a great admirer of the joys that booze can bring to your life. You just wouldn't catch me dead drinking in public where I might wake up the next morning, dazed and confused and in bed with a pair thigh-high boots, a handful of goat hair and a traffic cone. Call me a conservative, I'd rather get drunk in an environment where I'm on friendly relations with the toilet should things get ugly.

Then there's King Cakes. If you don't know what one is, I'm not going to waste time telling you about it -- do a web search and you'll quickly learn the background and history. What you need to know from my standpoint is that they're yummy, if a little grotesque when you happen to stumble on the plastic baby encased in a tomb of pastry and icing. It can sometimes kill your appetite when you take a bite out of something and then notice a tiny flesh-coloured arm dangling out of your food.

Last but not least, there's the people-watching aspect I mentioned earlier. Where else in the United States could you find an entire city that allows itself to become the embodiment of depravity for a week or more? Most other cities in our fair country would frown down upon, if not incarcerate, a 40-year old father of two openly groping the exposed chest of a 13-year old school girl for the paultry cost of a handful of pretty doubloons. Other cities might call that "prostitution", "molestation" or "statutory rape", but during Mardi Gras, all things are allowed, so don't fear the passing police officer. Instead, ask him to take a photograph of the heart-warming event!

And that's New Orleans during Mardi Gras, cher. Le bon temps roule!