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parade analysis
Jan. 27th, 2008 01:54 amWhen Mardi Gras drapes over New Orleans, I wonder how many people get wrapped into the sensation of this city. If there were magic in this old town, it most certainly would be focused during carnival season. It gets to be a fever. While the destination and event may vary wildly from person to person, the emotion is identical. Mardi Gras. A time of excess measured out in pvc beads and empty beer cans. How do you describe it? Where do you begin to explain? There is no easy way to say it. You have to be here. You swim in a sea of purple, green and gold. No explanation needed.
There are few strangers, excepting that wretched pool of drunk lemmings on Bourbon St. They don't have the mojo. They have big ass beers and song sheets from Cat's Meow. Fortunately the timing of Mardi Gras this year, the earliest in generations, brings none of that spring break trash. That's a good thing. In 2006, there were no tourists. That was the best Mardi Gras I've seen here. It was just us local yokels.
Last night, the first real night of parades, was a frigid bucket of rain. That dampens the mood substantially. No fever for me last night. Beer fever, maybe, but not Carnival fever. Today was a cold mist. Miserable. Almost worse than rain, because it's everywhere. On your porch. Under your house. Through the windows. You'd be better off with a downpour. The thought of subjecting myself to those elements did not fan the embers of parade desire. Seriously, screw all the whinings of the little ones. It was nasty outside. But I acquiesced. The arm was twisted. The boss had spoken. "Penguin," said the boss. "Load the kids in the car." And I did. Plus a neighbor and one of her boys. The herkimer headed down Napoleon to the parades. Lo and behold, no more mist. Just the right size crowd. And rock star parking to boot!
I stood out there, breathing in the parade. The spectacle of two krewes, the lights of consecutive floats strung down Napoleon from the river to St Charles. At this end of route, you're watching the parts mix together. Marching bands blossom from the neutral grounds, spreading across the pavement to neat lines of instruments and cheerleaders. They fall in as the floats pass, mingling in a float-band-float-band conga line. The machine comes together. From my vantage point the floats extend as far the street is long. A queen adjusts her twenty-five foot long train. Not much adjusting to be done there, but she's doing it, waving that stale forced gesture and gripping a chrome stand to keep from falling off.
Why are we out here? In the cold? "Oh, we're doing it for the kids," my lady says. "Oh, sure we are. For the kids," my friend Scott counters. "We do it for us. The kids happen to be there."
Right. Everything is about us. It is a selfish time, after all, the carnival of excess. But it's selfish for everybody, so it's all good. I can't tell you if I know anyone that doesn't like some facet of Mardi Gras. There's so many! If you can't enjoy yourself somewhere in this town right now, you must be laying on a steel cart in the morgue.
Tonight's booty is strewn about the living room. Considering how few floats rolled in front of us, we made an impressive haul. Likely, we've got thirty pounds of beads and something like two dozen stuffed plush...things. Vivian did inexplicably end up with a string of black penis beads, which, after distracting her with other glittering treats, I spirited out of her bag. She's friggin' nine. Like that'll end up in show-and-tell? I'm surprising my brother-in-law with them next weekend.
I digress.
The time really is here. I've got my Mardi Gras on. When's the next parade?
There are few strangers, excepting that wretched pool of drunk lemmings on Bourbon St. They don't have the mojo. They have big ass beers and song sheets from Cat's Meow. Fortunately the timing of Mardi Gras this year, the earliest in generations, brings none of that spring break trash. That's a good thing. In 2006, there were no tourists. That was the best Mardi Gras I've seen here. It was just us local yokels.
Last night, the first real night of parades, was a frigid bucket of rain. That dampens the mood substantially. No fever for me last night. Beer fever, maybe, but not Carnival fever. Today was a cold mist. Miserable. Almost worse than rain, because it's everywhere. On your porch. Under your house. Through the windows. You'd be better off with a downpour. The thought of subjecting myself to those elements did not fan the embers of parade desire. Seriously, screw all the whinings of the little ones. It was nasty outside. But I acquiesced. The arm was twisted. The boss had spoken. "Penguin," said the boss. "Load the kids in the car." And I did. Plus a neighbor and one of her boys. The herkimer headed down Napoleon to the parades. Lo and behold, no more mist. Just the right size crowd. And rock star parking to boot!
I stood out there, breathing in the parade. The spectacle of two krewes, the lights of consecutive floats strung down Napoleon from the river to St Charles. At this end of route, you're watching the parts mix together. Marching bands blossom from the neutral grounds, spreading across the pavement to neat lines of instruments and cheerleaders. They fall in as the floats pass, mingling in a float-band-float-band conga line. The machine comes together. From my vantage point the floats extend as far the street is long. A queen adjusts her twenty-five foot long train. Not much adjusting to be done there, but she's doing it, waving that stale forced gesture and gripping a chrome stand to keep from falling off.
Why are we out here? In the cold? "Oh, we're doing it for the kids," my lady says. "Oh, sure we are. For the kids," my friend Scott counters. "We do it for us. The kids happen to be there."
Right. Everything is about us. It is a selfish time, after all, the carnival of excess. But it's selfish for everybody, so it's all good. I can't tell you if I know anyone that doesn't like some facet of Mardi Gras. There's so many! If you can't enjoy yourself somewhere in this town right now, you must be laying on a steel cart in the morgue.
Tonight's booty is strewn about the living room. Considering how few floats rolled in front of us, we made an impressive haul. Likely, we've got thirty pounds of beads and something like two dozen stuffed plush...things. Vivian did inexplicably end up with a string of black penis beads, which, after distracting her with other glittering treats, I spirited out of her bag. She's friggin' nine. Like that'll end up in show-and-tell? I'm surprising my brother-in-law with them next weekend.
I digress.
The time really is here. I've got my Mardi Gras on. When's the next parade?
