Where We Learn How Close To Death Our Intrepid Hero Was

Continuing a feature that's rapidly losing popularity, Nic continues his travelogue of his time spent living it up during Mardi Gras

I'm going to be upfront about this: the zaniest shenanigans of my trip have already been told. So if you're reading this hoping for more tales of cunning plans and crazy capers, I'm sorry to inform you that you will be highly disappointed. But if you just have a morbid curiosity as to what it's like hanging out in the Big City, well, you'll probably be disappointed too. That's just the kind of guy that I am.


We took the morning off to recover in Baton Rouge from the antics of the night before, and believe me, we needed it. Fruits were consumed, Tylenol was taken, and sleep...occurred. But Cajuns are hearty folk, and that afternoon we were ready for another day of living the high life. After all, I'm pretty sure the state motto is "We'll drink you under the table--then drive your ass home". It's either that, or something about "Sportsman's Paradise" or "Shoot a Nutria From the Back of a Pickup Truck", I can't remember. So we headed down to Metairie for a good ol' fashioned family parade.

Now, the thing about the family parade is that there is far less flashing than on your standard parade route (but that doesn't mean it's totally absent). The upshot is that there is no barrier from the floats, so you can wander up to them and assault the people in parade. It's really a fantastic situation. So, after a stop at the Rally's (you have to love a fast food joint that features a burger called "The Big Buford"), we were ready to get some more beads. Well, after we got ourselves a 64 oz. Hurricane and hit the convenience store for a couple of fifths of vodka (God bless you Louisiana, and your hard alcohol-selling Circle K's).



In the buildup to the parade, I talked to a couple of Boys in Blue, most of whom had been shipped in from around the state just for the weekend. We get to talking about various strategies to handling the unruly (the one rule of Mardi Gras is basically "Don't be a jackass"; beyond that, they're not going to hassle you), and dish about the various celebrities that had shown up (like how Hulk Hogan was seen with a very young blonde lady who was not his daughter). We also get the scoop that it wasn't a particularly violent holiday--except for the shooting at the Endymion parade. Our more observant readers will realize that this was the exact parade that we went to; not only that, the shooting occurred right where we were hanging out (Canal and St. Charles). We apparently avoided catastrophe by about 15 minutes; then again, considering the overall volume of the entire festival, chances are we wouldn't have realized that a shooting had occurred unless we were ourselves hurt.



Eventually the Zeus parade rolled around, and we had ourselves a merry look at The Capitals of the World. Mainly this involved people dressing up in various feather/sequin combinations that in no way evoked any notion of national dress, but no one was looking for a history lesson on that day. Though I was pleasantly surprised that the Death Star sent out some representatives this year. But you can only take so much culture, so we hit the road once again for the French Quarter.


Now, there isn't much more to relate about hanging out on Bourbon Street. We sampled a variety of beverages, ranging from the Keystone Light of my college days to some kickass German imports that this Specialty Beer Hall had on tap, to daiquiris and Jaegerbombs. But I did get a chance to talk to some of our Spiritual Protest friends, mainly trying to convince them that it was kind of stupid that they followed a denomination of Christianity that was about 8 splits away from the original, and how retarded it was that they were attempting literal interpretations of the Bible when they weren't looking at the original Greek of the New Testament. But nothing was as awesome as the guy that had a sign that listed the 20 things in the area that were leading us straight to hell, ranging from the usual "homos" and "whores", but including the temptation of "Loud Women". I cannot begin to do justice to the rambling idiocy that was the reasoning behind it, so I'm just going to leave that to your imagination.

The only other story I can really tell is my attempt to follow Rule No. 1 of Bourbon Street. That involved trying to find a bar that would not force us to pay for a drink, or at least had open bathrooms. I had never needed to use a bathroom so much in my life, but was saved when we found an out of the way dive, only to be confronted by An Unholy Terror. Anyone who has seen the movie Trainspotting remembers "The Dirtiest Toilet In All of Scotland"; well, I found its counterpart in New Orleans. Except that it was only a urinal, and people had conveniently ignored that fact. But I was able to satisfy the ordeal with great relief, with the price being I had to hold my breath for about five minutes.



It's really hard to convey the go-go nature of the Street. Think of the best fucking frat party you've been to, except there's a thirty percent less likely chance of date rape. It's a whole lot of fun, but there's still a whole element of fear--you're goddamn right I had a hand on my wallet the entire time. On the other hand, my mind was often more concerned with taking in the sights and sounds. And enjoying smoking cigars while walking the streets with a beer in my hand. And really, isn't that what life is all about?