Happy Monday to you all. I hope you’re fully entrenched in the Mardi Gras season and the spirit gives wings to your feet on this, the most wretched of weekdays. I know we have members of our community from all over the country who don’t get a state-sanctioned, month-long excuse to be a fall-down drunk but believe me, we are deep into Carnival. If you listen closely, you can hear the collective screams of every liver in Louisiana.
Much like Christmas, it took some doing to rekindle my Mardi Gras spirit. For the last few years, I’ve avoided it. There was Mardi Gras 2020 that played out like a Southern Gothic tragedy with a woman crushed to death by a tacky float driven by the bloodthirsty harpies of the Krewe of Nyx. Not to mention that virus that cracked the world in half a couple of weeks later, you may not remember it; it wasn’t big news.
Since then, I’ve opted for a complete Mardi Gras blackout and have either resisted the gravitational pull of New Orleans like a rocket trying to escape a collapsing dwarf star, or I’ve locked myself in a room with water, vegetables, and three copies of the Quran until the forgiving dawn of Ash Wednesday.
Mardi Gras, or Carnival, is celebrated in places with large Catholic populations. According to the Archdiocese of New Orleans, the city boasts 508,000 Catholics in a city of 1.2 million inhabitants. You add about a million out-of-town Protestants into the mix, and you’ve got a recipe for the world’s biggest dialysis hotspot.
In my journey to become a more well-rounded and open-minded person, I’ve let my guard down some when it comes to the Catholics, and despite their spotty track record, I do love some of their traditions. The wafer at Mass always delighted me for some reason. Mass itself is a terrible bore, but that wafer makes up for the lack of pizazz that often comes with more contemporary Christian services. The art is lovely, and there’s nothing more refreshing than a baptism on a hot summer’s day.
I won’t be going hard like I used to around this time of year, but I will venture out and catch some of the parades. Will I be tempted to drink a bottle of Fireball from a naked man’s party funnel? No doubt about it. I’m but flesh and blood, but I have shifted my perspective to soften my views on Mardi Gras and appreciate what it means to so many people.
After all, there was a time when I would disappear into the French Quarter for days at a time, only to regain consciousness from the tongue of a police horse licking my face while mounted cops escorted an army of sanitation workers down Bourbon Street at midnight on Fat Tuesday signaling the end of Carnival.
That’s the problem with viewing things through your own lens instead of the collective’s. When I thought of Mardi Gras the last few years, I thought about how inconvenienced I was by the influx of thoughtless tourists, the soul-crushing traffic, and the hangovers so vile they felt like my skeleton was on fire. I thought about the lust-driven men eyeing women like slabs of slaughtered beef on Bourbon Street or the deluge of pent-up emotions I let out on my Uncle in front of Avenue Pub in 2020. I thought of the dead body I saw on a Mardi Gras trip with my family in the late 90s. I remembered getting close to the man on the ground I thought was sleeping, only to see his wide open, lifeless eyes staring back at a privileged boy who only wanted to see a boob or two.
During those years, I missed what made Mardi Gras so sacred. I’m not talking about the vomit puddles in the French Quarter, although they do have their charm when you see them adorned with colorful beads. I’m talking about the deeper stuff you only appreciate after a lifetime of floats passing you by. First, there’s the weather. The humidity becomes noticeable, but the cooler temperatures make it feel like the welcome clamminess after a fever that finally breaks.
The breeze is tinged with all manner of scents like cigars, stale beer, fried chicken, and plastic. You wouldn’t think these would blend into anything satisfying, but it’s so specific to the season that one whiff can put you in a positive frame of mind.
There’s the click-clack of a young woman weaving through the street wearing her weight in beads and street-smart children drumming on buckets. The random conversations you hear at a parade in between floats feel important, but when you listen for a few more seconds, they’re utter nonsense.
The satisfaction of a morning champagne buzz and clearing your pores over a steaming crawfish pot. The ache in your feet walking the length of St. Charles trying to find your friends. The new friends you meet as you pop into every bar on the route for a much-deserved roadie during your journey, and the elation of finding your people in the sea of revelers. A high school marching band in full regalia playing a brass-heavy version of “Back That Azz Up,” and the sense of purpose it gives the heavy-set boy carrying his tuba.
The shared sadness of being close to where a deranged man drove his truck into parade goers in 2017, the gumption to shake it off as the show must go on, and the singular ability of New Orleans to rise above the issues plaguing her and still look pretty year after year even though she’s been thoroughly beaten. These are the things I forget to focus on when I look at Mardi Gras in terms of me, and I miss them dearly.
So, as we’re only eight days away from Fat Tuesday, I encourage you to let go a little and get in the spirit. You don’t have to get hammered to enjoy the season, although it is encouraged, take a few minutes to soak up this ceremony that has meant so much to so many over the centuries. It’s bigger than you, and it always will be, but it has a way of making you feel like you belong somewhere. Whether that’s bellied up to a bar trying to get the coked-out bartender’s attention or convincing yourself that it’s okay to eat a Popeye’s biscuit off the street, let the good times roll.
Until next time.
Wow, this was so beautifully captured, Joe. The Times-Picayune needs to publish this. And Erica's right -- we need to attend next year.
I loved this one!! It really convinced me that we must make the trip back next year. Having major FOMO right now. And honestly - the smell! You described it perfectly and I can literally smell it right now. Godspeed to you and your liver this week, Uncle Joey!