Somewhere Between Cox and the NOFD

Nine days ago, I had no idea what this Carnival season had in store. Sure, this was only my second Mardi Gras as a New Orleans resident, but I thought I had more of a clue about the ins and outs of the week of revelry leading up to Fat Tuesday. By noon on Mardi Gras Day, my body was reeling from my boozy diet, and my mind was caught between passing out and doing the Safety Dance. Aside from the awesome cheese fondue and assortment of steaks and duck we had while catching Druids on our perch atop The Melting Pot, my body ran off the fumes of purple, green, and gold jello shots, a keg of Miller, Sam’s Choice brand energy drinks, red beans, and deer sausage for the remainder of the week.

While spending all of Thursday night trying to catch one of those coveted shoes from the largest all-female parading krewe (Muses), I realized that this was going to be no ordinary Mardi Gras.

The craze had stricken me. Beads were no longer meaningful. I suddenly felt above the peasants who were struggling to snatch cheap, plastic beads out of the air as if they were emulating redneck tourists on Bourbon Street who purchased a “ticket” to Mardi Gras off of StubHub. Instead, I found myself fighting for 5 cent throws and doubloons, and jumping out of the gym for semi-disposable cups and huggies (no, I didn’t mean to say koozies). Weary from the workout we just received from the parade (don’t judge, stealing Museuzelas from 8 year olds is hard work), we decided a quick post-parade beer was sufficient and packed it in.

Equipped with a fresh keg of Miller, a disco ball, glowsticks, a mullet, and a DVD of the first two seasons of ALF, the ‘80s dance party that proceeded the Friday night parades lived up to its billing. After reeling in a few innocent Hermes and Krewe d'etat parade goers with Burge’s blaring ‘80s tunes and Patrick’s bandito break dances (or should I say sporadic convulsions), all the talking heads at this burning-down-the-house-dance-party forwent the obvious Journey and witnessed possibly the greatest rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody of all time.

The night could have ended there in that 6th Street duplex and it would have gone down as one of the great nights of Mardi Gras. Rebirth had different plans for us. Clothed in our ‘80s drab, we second lined down to the almost-always-empty Prytania Cafe donning Member’s Only jackets and glowing beads. With the crowd overflowing into the street, we fought our way to a satellite bar they had set up on the side. With inhibitions at an all time low and decision making skills drastically degrading, we made the mistake of taking and then quickly devouring a whole bowl of cherries that the bartender had been drowning in moonshine (hey, they were free, and, after all, it was Mardi Gras). The toxic mash of moonshine, jello shots, and High Life brewed up enough courage to muscle our way through the crowd to the point where we were essentially sharing the stage and with Rebirth during "Feel Like Funkin' It Up".

The next thing I know, I woke up in my bed unable to hear anything out of my left ear, a weird itch deep in my scalp (hopefully from the mullet), and faintly remembering sending a bicycle search party out for Erin as she made her late night mad dash to McDonald’s. As much as I hate to admit it, I was glad that the heavy rain had hindered the Saturday parades, which allowed my legs to recover from those totally awesome ‘80s dance moves from the night before. Being tremendously lazy, we didn’t get up and moving until the rain stopped and the sun set. Once up, all of the ailments were cured with what may become my favorite hangover cure- a pint of PBR, a scallop taco, and an order of the jerk pork nachos from The Rum House.

The downpours from Saturday moved Endymion from its Mid-City route to the traditional Uptown route following Bacchus on Sunday. Endymion , Bacchus, Thoth, Mid-City. Three super krewes following one of the more traditional parading krewes- all rolling a mere 100 feet from our 6th Street Mardi Gras Headquarters. Hell yeah. Starting at 10:00 (in the A.M.) with a gallon of homemade French 75s, 13 hours on the parade route was interspersed with brief porch sessions, more of those dreaded jello shots, smoked deer sausage, boudin, and pots of red beans and gumbo. With so much attention focused on drinking hand grenades with the Girls Gone Wild participants on Bourbon Street, the relaxed, tailgate/block party atmosphere along the 5 mile long route on the St. Charles Avenue neutral ground proved to be both family friendly and drunkard friendly. Kids intermingling with smashed adults was the theme of the day, even for us. A nine year old begged me and Burge to put her on her shoulders so she could catch more throws. We both hesitated, thinking that her drunken dad would mistake us for Herb the Perv if he spotted her on our shoulders. After an hour of pleading she ran off and returned with her dad, who gave the okay, stating “that means I don’t have to do it”. And so began our day long friendship. She hovered near us until the end of Endymion, even posing with Burge’s locally infamous astronaut mask.

We sat out the Lundi Gras festivities at the Riverfront, but reconvened at our parade post for the oldest active parade in New Orleans, Proteus. As the NOFD truck signaled the end of Proteus, and the Cox Communications truck led the way for the upcoming Orpheus parade, hunger struck. With our brains still not operating at full capacity, we somehow forgot that our route to Slice near Whole foods was impeded by the prolonged Orpheus parade. We quickly recovered from our mishap by snagging two sidewalk tables at Theo’s where we happened to catch a scene that could have appeared on an action sequence of Treme- a four wheeler being chased by an unmarked, untagged Cadillac (remember, at this point we were right smack in the middle of Magazine Street). Although it wasn’t Slice, and as much as I hate to admit it, the vegetable pizza with huge chunks of spicy tomatoes, olives, and squash turned out to be a pretty damn tasty pizza. Washing down the slices with a few festive pints of Jockamo IPA also washed away the rest of the night.

And then came the day of all days- Mardi Gras Day. As we walked up Jackson Avenue from Laurel to St. Charles, the sights and sounds of Mardi Gras were already greeting us before we even crossed Camp. Brass bands echoed around the taller buildings and hotels between Lee Circle and Jackson Avenue. Ribs were on smokers, chickens were on grills, crawfish were in 50 gallon pots, and the smoke formed a hazy cloud over the already overcast St. Charles Avenue. Cramped, hungry, and wet, we decided that a Zulu coconut from a rider of borrowed floats wasn’t in our near future.

We set up shop at our usual spot as the parade of all parades began. As usual, the parades never arrive on time. A tractor breaks down. A fire truck blows a tire. A Chalmette High School band member passes out from overdosing on trashiness. While waiting for the great Mardi Gras day parade to arrive, Burge just so happened to catch a glimpse of a feather headdress just a few blocks away. We ran, literally (just ask Erin), to catch a glimpse of the elusive and seemingly rare Mardi Gras Indians. As we approached Barronne we realized that the chief, spy boy, and sign boy were all at the corner of 6th.

The Wild Red Flames eventually traveled on to find an opposing tribe. As they departed, the bells of Christ Church Cathedral finally began to toll. They weren’t ringing for the hour or half hour. After a week of festivities and days of torturing our bodies with Zapp’s and Natty Lights, our wait was now over. The climax of the entire carnival season was here- the passing of the King of Carnival, Rex. Mardi Gras was officially here, and, at the same time, the revelry of yet another successful Mardi Gras was dangerously close to ending and giving way to Lent and a Charlie Sheen-esque rehab.