My Mardi Gras story begins the moment C-Money waltzed into the library on Monday, February 27, 2006; a true shocker - his presence in the library fleeting and rare because C-Money scorns mindless waste of mindful energy, and therefore avoids the library at all costs. I demand an explanation, “Dude! What the hell are you doing here?” His tall frame laughed, explaining that he had arrived to rescue me from myself, “I am here to take you to f*cking Mardi Gras that’s what, you hatchet-wound!” The visions of flooding, pain, and loss that had filled the televisions for weeks provided too tempting an opportunity to see the revitalization, to participate in a renaissance of the jewel of the south on such massive proportions: an emotional swing that humans rarely experience in a single lifetime. “Are you serious?” I asked. “Uh, yeah!” he said courtly. C-Money was always serious, never denying the truth of his natural mystic. “Did I stutter?” “F*ck yeah! Let’s Go!” People look at me disapprovingly, in the middle of the ground floor screaming and jumping like a monkey, gathering my books and throwing them violently into my bag, fearing that without quick action the 6’ 4” southern charmer might change his mind. Damn you boys have a pep in your step, said the friendly janitor, as we scramble towards the exits, fumbling with cell phones. F*ck yeah, we goin’ gator huntin’. Within minutes, Stinky is on the line and agrees to trade her car for mine for 2 days so we can travel in style. Truants on Mardi Gras need to travel to the dirty dirty in American style, not in a VW Jetta, but a Jeep Cherokee. Within minutes, C-Money has commitments to fill the car: Mexico, J-Man, and the Booty are in, and we’re rolling.
We pack the cooler full of whatever we can find including any delectibles in the freeze box; it is a pantry-raiding grab-bag full of booze (half fill bottles of rum and vodka) plus a few random PBRs, Busches, Corona, throw a Gatoraid, half-full bottles of water, some Kraft cheese singles -- and anything else that won’t spoil over the next three days and we have a veritable survival kit. Mexico is still in bed, not atypical for 5 in the PM, after a busy afternoon, but he is our driver, and it is not like he is missing class anyway, because he doesn't goes to class in the first place; so throw him behind the wheel because he's done twenty hour straight drives from Texas to North Carolina on no sleep but for the power of Framton leading from his shirt pocket directly to the mucousa of the brain. J-Man is packin flower-power heat for everyone, moving speedily towards the car with a knapsack full of the unknown, that is mostly sleeping bag and pillow. Even though this car is ridin dirty, J-Man never fears a car ride with 4 full on honkey-looking dudes. J-Man is half honkey, half-black, full honey, and cognizant of the phenomenon that if outnumbered by all-white dudes, and not driving, he cannot get pulled over for a DWB; nevertheless we are aware of the risks and therefore must maintain a clean compartment within the car, to avoid any reasonable suspicion. Not that we are breaking any laws, but we know our rights. This also explains why the Booty arrives soon thereafter, replete with the the radar detector (to tell me where the cops is) a few minutes late but early by Booty standards, and already complaining that the car has not started moving yet. C-Money has been ready, is always ready, and doesn’t need any clothes, or anything else, because he always keeps a toothbrush on him.
Six hours later, Mexico pulls us into Atlanta. Ever since Ray Lewis killed that guy after the Superbowl it’s never been the same. Hey, goddammit let's just stay here for the night..."Forget that, Geezy, we have to keep going, continue through the night." No man, I have girls here that want to bang me. I went to college here...I'm telling you. "Geezy, you haven't had a girl want to bang you ever. We have to push through. There is business to attend to." The ride continues through the night for the sake of one of the greatest parties on Earth.
The big blue Jeep pushes through, with Mexico at the wheel, what I could call a flaming head full of steam, but nothing powering it, just going on fumes, the promise of adrenaline and adventure -- human's greatest high. Drifting off in the bitch seat while the car pushes forth, onward into the darkness of the evening with a promise of a sunlight and human contact, pushing deeper, 6 hours later -- New Orleans’ seems to arrive with the blueish hue of dawn. The landscape resembles a warzone: houses, neighborhoods, ripped to shreds, making sheet rock and dry wall look like paper, strewn about the ground, witness to Earth's fury. Holy shit! Someone yells, and for a moment I am awake. Look at that! It is a Wal-Mart, and it is ripped to shreds.
I heard this hurricane wasn't that strong...
Whoever said that was smoking crack. This thing destroyed an entire city.
The big blue Jeep pushes through, with Mexico at the wheel, what I could call a flaming head full of steam, but nothing powering it, just going on fumes, the promise of adrenaline and adventure -- human's greatest high. Drifting off in the bitch seat while the car pushes forth, onward into the darkness of the evening with a promise of a sunlight and human contact, pushing deeper, 6 hours later -- New Orleans’ seems to arrive with the blueish hue of dawn. The landscape resembles a warzone: houses, neighborhoods, ripped to shreds, making sheet rock and dry wall look like paper, strewn about the ground, witness to Earth's fury. Holy shit! Someone yells, and for a moment I am awake. Look at that! It is a Wal-Mart, and it is ripped to shreds.
I heard this hurricane wasn't that strong...
Whoever said that was smoking crack. This thing destroyed an entire city.
* * *
Mexico pulls up to the Hotel Le Pavillion -- a shining homage to post-Victorian industrialism of the roaring 20s – and the hotel is remarkably, unnoticeably damaged. Our reservation, however, is for 2 PM later that day, which we reserved via Expedia's phone service 6 hours earlier when departing Atlanta's city limits on I-75, and not surprisingly, the hotel won’t check us in at 7 AM however. The obvious solution is to park the car and head into the Latin Quarter, driking beers without having experienced any sleep, and stumble into the early morning party, Fat Tuesday, the year of our Lord, 2006, only to find a veritable riot at 300 Bourbon Street.
Mexico pulls up to the Hotel Le Pavillion -- a shining homage to post-Victorian industrialism of the roaring 20s – and the hotel is remarkably, unnoticeably damaged. Our reservation, however, is for 2 PM later that day, which we reserved via Expedia's phone service 6 hours earlier when departing Atlanta's city limits on I-75, and not surprisingly, the hotel won’t check us in at 7 AM however. The obvious solution is to park the car and head into the Latin Quarter, driking beers without having experienced any sleep, and stumble into the early morning party, Fat Tuesday, the year of our Lord, 2006, only to find a veritable riot at 300 Bourbon Street.
Thousands of people are screaming at a balcony. This is the hotel we wanted to stay at but it was booked solid unless someone wanted to reserve a room at the Royal Sonesta for three days, which according to C-Money, was remarkable -- "Normally, you have to book this at least a year in advance. We could stay here if we wanted, if we only had f-you money..." There swarms of people waiving towards the balcony where young blonde haired women are throwing beads at our heads. It is a strange find early in the morning, as it would seem to defy all rationality that hundreds of people would be fighting over beads at 7:30 in the morning. The Butt sees what's going on...Brittney Spears is the ring-leader of the young blondes on the balcony, and she is throwing beads at our heads. It seems that her distant cousins are getting in the act, with bleached hair and drunk on the power of pursuasion. With the knowledge that Brittney is throwing these beads, suddenly I am fighting large men for the beads from her hands. Outta my way! I want Brittney's Beads… C-Money, the Mardi Gras impresario proclaims, points towards the balcony, “See, everyone who’s anyone stays at the Royal Sonesta for Mardi Gras. Brittney is from NOLA Geezy! She has plenty of beads. And she knows the deal." Yes. If I can get Brittney's beads, maybe I can get some of her good fortune as well. "Maybe, but her cousins aren't going to make out with you regardless.” Suddenly a stout 50-year-old, the size of a fullback, bumps me, head down. He has somewhere to be. Oh Shit! "C-Money, you see who that was?" That’s Emeril Legassi! Yo – your show is the jam - BAM! “Bam!” He responds, and continues to push us out of his way.
Getting pushed around in a crowd by rich assholes reminds me of the time I was in line at He’s Not Here in Chapel Hill for Big Beer Night, held every Tuesday during the summer of my first summer in law school. According to urban legend, the owners re-named the bar after Jordan graduated, because it was his favorite spot in Chapel Hill and people would always call and ask for him and the bartenders would respond – “He’s Not Here!”A crew of large black dudes unexpectdedly and violently push me out of the way, cutting directly to the front. “Hey Jerks!” I yell. An undergrad is next to me, wide-eyed, mad, and proclaims, “Do you know who that was?” “Yeah, some dickhead who just cut line!” She then pushes me out of the way so she can get to the front of the line… “What does this look like, to you people, Summer Slam?” I get in, and there’s a palpable buzz… Richter tells me, in his sleepy Cali drawl – “Hey, dude, did you see? Michael Jordan just walked into the bar…” "No way! I just got pushed by Michael Jordan's cronies. Now I know how Patrick Ewing feels." Peepsing my way towards the front, Jordan is already behind the bar, drinking beer out of his shoe.[1] Guess he cut the beer line too.
Emeril walks to the center of Music Legends Park, parting the sea of people like a rotund Charlton Hesston. An elevated desk sits in the middle of the plaza, for the filming of Good Morning America. “Sweet,” says C-Money, “Time to get some beignets.” Sleepless and disoriented, we head to the jam packed Café du Monde for well needed chicory coffee and donuts.
Mexico is banging on the windows. I am lying across the cooler in the back. Everyone else is in the cabin, napping, sweaty, and hot. “They’re checking us in!” In the street, a parade has materialized. Floats jam packed with Cajuns and Creoles - WAHARHAR! - dressed like kings and queens are honking and be-bopping, enormous speakers pumping Zydeco from a flotilla civilly making its way around the Jeep / bead-repository. Parade kings and queens are smiling, gyrating their hips, and aiming beads directly at our heads as we stand outside of the car confused and disheveled. Beads fall like chocolate rain upon our heads and the car. The Jeep’s blue paint is barely visible under the litter. Booty snatches yellow toy underwear from the sky that he places in the car’s rearview mirror. Please baby Jesus, don’t tow this car… “Don’t worry Geezy. It blends in now with the community, like camouflage.” Booty looks at his watch, “Shit, I have to call my girlfriend. I told her I was in the library.” I look to J-Man, who is puffing a ciggie, for reassurance, and he shrugs his shoulders…
Back into the quarter in the early afternoon, and it is still packed with people, but drunker. A small restaurant on St. Charles St. with signs in the window that say, simply, “Hiring,” is serving a half menu of poy bo’ deliciousness: fried oysters, fried shrimp, clam, grouper, and muffalettas land-lubbers. The back half of the restaurant is dark with chairs on the table. A young waitress with short brown hair apologizes that the menu is limited. “Most of the staff moved away,” she explains, “This is about half of the regular menu; we’ve had a heck of a time getting the restaurant back up and running since Katrina.” Yeah, we came down for Mardi Gras to party and support the city by spending some money…“Well look at you boys…yes we’ve had a decent showing this year but it’s been remarkably tame.” “That’s amazing,” I explain, “I’m having the greatest time of my life. I never want to leave.” We are hiring…
The evening of Fat Tuesday, people flow indiscriminately in the Quarter - a mass of humanity and strawberry hurricanes. Drinks are everywhere; it’s an open container Arabian market. Bars on the street will just sell you drinks in styrophome cups. Hold on Mr. Daiquiri shop operator, for only two dollars I can add an extra shot of ever-clear to my 20 oz frozen drink of death? How could I pass up such a windfall! The wealthy, poor and derelicts alike together under yellow lights and horns. Soon I am dancing with homeless people in the streets.
At midnight, bright lights are shining in my face and loud horns are blasting. Street cleaners and cops have suddenly taken over the Quarter, chasing away partiers who scramble to another block. C-Money is screaming at me - everyone else having disappeared, “At the strikes of midnight, people must to empty the streets. This town is religion town, so when Ash Wednesday comes around, the party ends. This year, however, they’re going to let it go on a bit longer.”
Yes, although lives had been destroyed, the resilient quality of human nature would ensure the Big Easy’s survival. I wake up on the floor of the four star hotel room. A confused and disoriented litte boy, “J-Man, J-Man, what happened to you last night? We lost you, where’d you go? “I don’t know. I was with you guys, then next thing I knew I was with some locals, and I started making out with a lady in the middle of the street on a car.” “That’s crazy J-man, how did she look?” “I don’t remember.” “Well how old was she?” “I’m not sure.” “Do you remember anything?” “Not really.” Are you sure she wasn’t a tranny? No, not really...
[1] Fine. Jordan wasn’t drinking beer out of his shoe. But he was drinking a Corona with his shoe in the other hand, holding it up for people to admire.
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