Mardi Gras - American Carnage

When the dust had settled after Fat Tuesday (the literal translation from the French Mardi Gras) the question I was asked most frequently was 'how was your Mardi Gras?' At first this seemed a bit odd but then it's worth remembering that this is a full month of solid revelry that culminates in a week of pure, unbridled hedonism. There are literally hundreds of different parades, walks, crawfish broils, bloc parties and various other distractions during this period.

Even if you tried your very best, it would be very challenging and ultimately fruitless to try and experience the same Mardi Gras twice. My experience, as someone who has now lived in the place through a full season is that this time should be treated as a personal journey, albeit a journey that involves doing unspeakable damage to just about every facet of one's being.

To attempt to master and control your Mardi Gras experience is about as foolish as trying to herd clouds. I learned quickly that to fully enjoy the experience you must surrender yourself to it. Never refuse an invitation and always remain curious (within your own levels of tolerance of course). Above all, have fun and ensure that others around you are enjoying themselves to the fullest extent. I also add that everything should be approached with a dollop of common sense. Remember that it's a marathon, not a sprint. Tourists, in particular, really don't seem to get this mentality at all.

To write about the entire month leading up to Mardi Gras would take up several volumes. So instead this entry just focuses on the week leading up to Fat Tuesday. This is the most intense and well known period during the festival and contains its largest parades as well as its most salacious and outrageous happenings.

The first night out on this bacchanalian odyssey began, appropriately enough with a party on Wednesday evening called 'Big Tits and Big Dicks.' Unsurprisingly, it served both and in healthy quantities. I was out at a local bar with my flatmates Brian and Sophie, celebrating Brian's departure to Brooklyn the following week. As the evening progressed, we noticed more and more people coming in dressed in an array of outfits that seemed to have shrunk in the wash and been dragged through a pile of glitter. This is by no means an unusual sight here but there sheer volume of people prompted us to ask where they were heading to.

"Ain't you heard. It's Big Tits and Big Dicks tonight y'all." Said one twinkish chap in a fur waistcoat, pink hot pants and sporting a glittery handbag he'd received in the Nix parade. We hadn't been aware of this little shindig, but decided it was worth a gander and went home to change. It's always worth assuming that costume is mandatory at parties here. Often you won't be allowed into one if you haven't bothered to make the effort. This may seem a bit draconian but the results are quite spectacular at times. In any case, it's rather pointless to tell a New Orleanian not to wear costume. Even a trip to the grocery store can be treated as an exciting opportunity to dress oneself up.

As an aside, this is the only city I know where the verb 'to costume' is used in everyday conversation. All too often you'll overhear someone say 'Oh, I'd love to hun but I'm costuming tonight.' People here will spend tens, if not hundreds of hours preparing costumes at extraordinary expense. To an outsider it may seem like a collective lunacy. But here, no home is complete without costume boxes, cupboards and, for the more dedicated, rooms. These can be for balls, parades or just for the fuck of it. Asking a local to dress down for an occasion is like asking Trump to stop lying through his teeth.

Tonight was no exception. After we had gone home for a relatively ad hoc costuming session, we were treated to a line that looked as though it was never going to end. The event was being held at a warehouse a few blocks from our place. The crowd was the usual assortment of sparkling drag queens, vociferous gay men and women, and local Bywater folk tagging along for the ride.

'Oh Jesus honey, it's just like being back in LA' came one exasperated voice from the line. After much patient waiting, I paid my $10 and got in. Thankfully the people watching made the whole thing much more of an activity than your average wait at airport security. We were even treated to a few shows along the way by a man/woman who had thoughtfully provided a speaker and, mercifully, a thong. It was all very jolly and people generally kept their cool despite the preposterous waiting time.

Inside the warehouse you were bathed in a thick, meaty tang of perspiration. The space was completely unventilated and contained two makeshift bars, a catwalk and a stripper pole. The show had already been underway for some time and the atmosphere was at fever pitch. The current act was a morbidly obese black woman, sporting short blonde hair with texture not unlike the exterior of a scotch egg. She was performing a seriously grimy rap routine and had so much energy that even watching her perform was quite a draining experience.

The second act was a little less orthodox. An extremely leggy, achingly attractive woman spray painted silver emerged from behind the back curtain. Clothed in nothing but a microscopic blue slip on dress and what appeared to be a makeshift space helmet, she delicately began to have her way with the pole.

No sooner had she started then someone in a full alien costume, replete with tentacles and giant googly eyes appeared and, predictably, began to seduce her. Eventually a man in an leotard and fangs appeared from under the costume. The silver girl naturally greeted him in the traditional fashion that earthlings do and began to suck him off. He didn't have a penis per se but a sort of large plastic truncheon attached to his groin which duly spat out confetti all over her and the audience once he had been given the requisite amount of satiation.

The same courtesy was given to the girl and she somehow managed to find it in her heart to also fire pink confetti from a device concealed (I hope it was a device) near her groin. There were many more acts in the same vein and all in all it was a thoroughly enjoyable night with some very nice and colourful people. Could hardly recommend it enough. Best to leave the kids at home though.

The next day I had to drag myself out of bed for a 16 hour pedicab shift. Pedicabs are what we call rickshaws back in blighty. The reasoning for becoming a pedicab driver is something I shall save for another article. But, suffice it to say, it's a world away from being a banker and very much in a good way.

During my shift I was bequeathed a hand crafted shoe as a tip by one of my customers. They were part of the Krewe of Muses that was parading later that evening. I learnt that being offered one of these is one of the rarest and most valued possession that one can get their hands on during Mardi Gras, save of course for a Nix handbag. People can spend a lifetime attending parades and never receive either. I was deeply honoured by this gesture and added it to the trove of wonderful moments that had happened to me in this place since my arrival.

Incidentally, there is much more to Mardi Gras throws than meets the eye. At first it all seemed to be the same beads and doubloons. I overheard one tourist say that 'All them parades look alike.' He was lucky a seasoned local wasn't nearby or else he would have been shot. As with many things here, there is an entire subculture dedicated to parade swag that almost has its own language entirely.

Certain floats may have a special throws and collectibles that require secret passwords, holding up special coded signs or simply to be recognised by a passing friend. One person I know was the lucky recipient of a decorated toilet brush. This was very much an honour for him to receive and I have no doubt that it holds pride of place in his home.

That's the thing I really love about America. It is a country that has truly mastered the ability to take anything and square root its most salient qualities. From cronuts to Turducken (Turkey stuffed with duck, stuffed with chicken obviously), this county excels at excess and has turned it into an art form. There is something so devilishly wasteful about the whole occasion. They even measure the number of attendees each year by the weight of garbage produced. So the more slovenly and wasteful you are, the more successful the Mardi Gras. I know Scandinavians who would literally choke on their herring if they knew about this. But to hell with it. You just have to get with the programme here.

After 16 hours of sweaty, busy Mardi Gras pedicab hustling, I went to a party in a warehouse called The Moon a few blocks from me. The Moon is owned by a chap called Graham Holly, a DJ and all round great bloke. The parties there were organised by a very colourful character called Nick, who I had met at a mini Burning Man in Miami. Given that this was actually someone's home, the whole thing was incredibly well set up - lined with mattresses, psychedelic wall hangings, a proper sound system, projector and even a doorman. Much better, in fact, than just about every club in London.

This party was still very much a costumed affair but a good deal less nudity than the previous night. There I met a nice Spanish girl called Veronika who offered me some acid in exchange for a few pithy aphorisms about how I came to be in this strange and wonderful place. The rest of the night is something of a blur. It's been two weeks and I still keep bumping into strangers who know me by name and seem happy to see me and I'm fairly convinced I met them there.

I'm thankful to have this journal as a memoir for a time for when I'm likely to not even remember my own name. Certainly feels like it's going that way at this rate. I certainly look forward to my grandchildren reading it aloud during family gatherings.

The night ended at 9am with a bacon McGriddle and a sunrise chat with my housemate Sophie. No doubt she was slightly alarmed by my state of being but she was getting used to it by now so it was probably less of a shock than it could have been. I was up again by lunchtime and dragging myself back out to drinks in the French Quarter. Ready to do it all over again.

I was heading off to meet Bobby, one of my new NOLA friends and as excellent a host as one could hope for in a new city. He was an tall, broad jawed Bostonian with a Cheshire Cat grin that was as disarming as it was reassuring. He had taken me under his wing since my arrival here and made sure that my landing here had been as soft as possible. His friend Will was in town from up North and we proceeded to get merrily sloshed.

The French Quarter could, at best, be described as carnage. And it was only Friday. "American Carnage." I quietly whispered under my breath, watching tides of drunken revelers pouring down Bourbon St with the air of people who were not going to be conscious for very much longer. After having our fill, we all bundled into a taxi and headed to the Garden District to party and to watch the evening parades.

We ended up at a large, beautiful American townhouse a block away from the parade route. I had recognised it from a walking tour of the Garden District because it was near John Goodman's place. And I'm a seriously big fan of his work and most of his films. Sandra Bullock also lives in the nearby but that's a little less exciting. The garden was decorated with an impressive array of bowtied servers and buffet stands ranging from DIY tacos to charbroiled oysters. It was a pillared Eden of tranquility. You would not have the faintest inclination that barely two blocks away was one of the most spectacular and boisterous parades in the world.

There is something relentless in the way that this city is able to provide free and diverting entertainment. There were three parades that eve. D'Etat, Hermes and Morpheus. Evening parades are particularly exciting because the floats are all led by Flambeaux. These are usually black men carrying large flaming banners, fed by a jar of natural gas. In the 19th century these were often slaves with wooden torches, necessary to illuminate the nighttime parades. Sometimes they were free men of colour if it was a particularly progressive city, like New Orleans. Until surprisingly recently, the Flambeaux were tipped by throwing coins in their general direction, usually as a response to tricks that they were able to pull off using their torches.

Tipping does still exist in the form of notes and the composition of the Flambeaux is a little more varied than the past but it's certainly a slightly painful and awkward reminder of the skeletons that still darken the cupboards of the Deep South.

Back in the house, I was filling up my gumbo bowl when I got into a very interesting and engaging discussion with a charming blonde woman in her late 50s. She had a wonderful aura about her and we got along splendidly. During our conversation it transpired that she had been married to John Goodman for 27 years and lived in the house that I had seen on my walking tour here in September. 'What a strange and delightful world' I thought. Not wanting to give myself away as too much of a fan. I did my very best to contain my excitement but almost certainly failed.

I was buoyed by this encounter and some of the anecdotes she shared. It's a fairly surreal moment when you get to meet the closest person to one of the actors you respect most in the world because you probably get to know them a good deal better than if you would if you met the person themself. By all accounts, John is an extremely modest and retiring fellow, one would go as far as to say shy.

Saturday began with an early breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon at Bobby's in the French Quarter. After sampling them, I concluded that I have met no more eligible a bachelor than Bobby in all my life. Charming, thoughtful and a maker of good breakfasts. I resolved to get him hitched as soon as humanly possible.

Predictably, it was another day of heavy drinking and parading. The weather had been nothing short of glorious so far and it didn't disappoint on this occasion either. The festivities swirled by in a sunny daze of bead catching, garden parties, house parties and the like. It was utterly glorious and guiltless pleasure.

That evening I had the great honour of being offered a VIP invite to one of the hottest tickets in town from a good friend in the city called Jennifer. Unfortunately the event is so prestigious and secretive that I've been told that I can't really discuss it in any great detail, despite the microscopic readership of this journal. Suffice it to say, it was a delightful shitshow that involved (you've guessed it) lots of serious dressing up in a venue located in the far flung reaches of the city. Here's a few pics of me getting ready. I went as union Jack and Jill. Thankfully there are no pictures of me in full costume because it involved a pair of red tights and knickers and would potentially endanger my burgeoning political aspirations.

One highlight of the evening was bumping into the person who ran the pedicab company I worked for. But that's sort of how things go here. I've been in NOLA for 6 weeks and already you bump into people wherever you go. It's very much a big small town. I'm beginning to wonder if that's why everyone is so nice here. You can't really afford to be a dick because everyone will know about it soon enough.

Either way I'm glad for it. Moving to a new city, in the far reaches of another continent is a fairly daunting endeavor. Even with the soft landing I've had, there are always plenty of setbacks. But it makes it a whole lot easier when you've got the help and support of those around you. And, despite only knowing most people here for a few weeks, I sometimes feel like I've been here for years. Or at least my body does at any rate.

As you can imagine, Sunday was something of a write off. At this rate, I was on a direct collision course with a severe brain aneurysm so I decided to take my foot off the gas a little. Four days of solid partying doth not a healthy person make. And, more pressingly, we weren't at the main event yet. Fat Tuesday was still two days away. It felt like a million years as far as I was concerned. Remember, this was a marathon, not a sprint. Anyone who tried to sprint this would be dead by Monday.

Monday, incidentally, was much like Friday had been. A day of parades, drinks, parties and a few more drinks. I even had the pleasure of some more banter with the wonderful Mrs Goodman. There is a special kind of energy in this place during Mardi Gras that gives you the strength to keep on going. It rises like steam from a the pavements here after a summer storm and permeates every fiber of your being. You can feel it in your bones and you really need to tap into it in order to survive this onslaught. Curiosity and self-expression will only get you so far, but you really need to keep enough gas in the tank for Fat Tuesday.

Mardi Gras day began with a home cooked breakfast burrito at Bobby's accompanied by Will and several very strong Mimosas. Fat Tuesday has some of the biggest and well known parades, Rex and Zulu. Fortunately I get to experience those next year as this time we decided to head to a smaller, less official walking parade called St Anne's in Marigny, near the French Quarter.

Finally, I knew what everyone was talking about when they said that they were jealous that I was getting to experience this for the first time. Everyone, and I mean everyone, has to be in costume on Fat Tuesday. The whole sight is something I've not quite seen before. I've been to several music festivals and parades around the world, but this was something quite different. A whole city bathing in the carnage of collective hedonism.

I ended up joining one of the parades as a bearer of the Audubon float. This was essentially a mobile DJ booth replete with various flora and fauna for decoration. At one point we were in front of the St Louis Cathedral and managed to fill a good chunk of Jackson Square up with our associated revelers. We then moved on to the banks of the Mississippi and continued to do the same thing down there. Soon we had filled up a significant chunk of the riverside. The whole thing was a complete, delectable mess.

One highlight of the day came when we had to take the DJ booth through the parking barriers. We even paid for the parking, God bless us. The day continued in much the same fashion and I ended up at a party on an abandoned naval base in the East and then back in the French Quarter for a last bite of the cherry. That too, remains something of a haze. And it's probably for the best.

On Wednesday I woke up replete with a number of very large bruises and a two inch long gash in my foot. There was glitter almost everywhere and my head felt like it had been filled with mercury, By the standards of the last seven days I still consider it to be a lucky escape. A befitting physical souvenir for a series of festivities that very nearly broke me in two.

So that was my Mardi Gras. A journey that was everything I could have hoped for with the added bonus of having missed out enough that I'm very hungry for more next year. But of course, next year is likely to be a different animal altogether. It always is, or so I've been warned..