DEBACLE and DEBAUCHERY: Post-Katrina New Orleans during Mardi Gras

[small]I have never been especially fond (nor unfond) of Charles Dickens, but I feel compelled to begin by referencing “A Tale of Two Cities.” For New Orleans in the post-Katrina age, Mardi Gras truly is the best of times amidst the worst of times.

I spent five days there experiencing both worlds, and here are my thoughts:[/small]

“Eighteen months. When I walk through the ghost town that was once the Lower Ninth Ward it boggled my mind to realized that it had been eighteen months since Miss Katrina impolitely barged her way through the Crescent City.

The few “houses” which still remained standing looked like they’d been hit by a missile and the next strong breeze might occasion their collapse. Eighteen months. Hundreds of thousands of residents still hadn’t returned. Hospitals and schools still had their windows boarded up and their doors locked and chained. Eighteen months.

There is so much talk about “rebuilding” New Orleans. But where are the cranes? Where are the motherfucking construction cranes? I spent nearly a week going all over that city and I didn’t see one goddamn construction crane. Where exactly is all this supposed rebuilding taking place? And where are all those federal dollars which are supposed to finance this “rebuilding” effort? (If you answered “Iraq” – that other scar of shame on our nation – you’re only partially right.)

It’s tragic. And it’s enraging. But it’s impossible to ignore the fact that America’s continuing legacy of racism is the thing that Katrina’s deadly waters most exposed and continue to expose. Probably the truest words spoken in all of 2005 came from the unlikely lips of Kanye West when he said on national television that “George Bush does not care about black people.”* He could have extended that accusation to include most of the federal government.

Believe you me, If Katrina hit Martha’s Vineyard I can guarantee F.E.M.A. would have been on site within hours and the nation’s elite would have had their mansions rebuilt with federal assistance in a matter of months. But New Orleans isn’t Martha’s Vineyard. When Katrina struck, two out of three residents were African-American. And George W. Bush’s America like George Washington’s America does not care about black people.

But like I said in my introduction, this is a tale of two cities. And I don’t want to depress you any further. So if you want to read and see more about the continuing disaster of Katrina then let me recommend this recent article by Bill Quigley.

[big]When Disaster Nears: FOLLOW THE FRENCH![/big]

Now, while I was volunteering with Common Ground Relief in the Upper Ninth Ward, I was told something the truth of which I have yet to investigate but which intuitively strikes me as very plausibly correct. A colleague said that every place in New Orleans where the French colonists originally settled had survived Katrina with no major damage.

The French Quarter (which represents the physical heart of the “other city” in this tale of two) is, of course, the primary exemplary of this truth. The historic homes near the famed St. Louis Cathedral may certainly have lost a few shingles or sustained some broken windows, but the toll was nothing in comparison to the utter devastation which befell their neighbors in the Ninth.

This reminded me of another fact I had heard in the wake of that other recent natural calamity – the post-Christmas 2004 tsunami in the Indian Ocean. In the aftermath of that six-figure killer it was reported that the only city along the Coromandel Coast of India NOT to sustain significant damage was Pondicherry. Why do I mention this? Well, Pondicherry happened to be the only FRENCH colony in all of India. And the reason Pondicherry was spared? Well, unlike their colonial competitors, the Brits, those clever Frenchies built a large sea wall around their city.

So, the lesson is: if a disaster is coming your way, ask yourself “What would the French do?”

[big]“The Meaning of Mardi Gras” As Told By A Chinese Jew From Texas[/big]

Alright, so before talking about Mardi Gras on the French Quarter, it behooves me to step back and give a short historical essay on the event known as Mardi Gras. I do this as someone new to many of the facts that I am about to relay. Maybe most of what I say will be obvious to you, but I’ve found from verbal telling that it is not to many if not most.

First, it only struck me about halfway through my time in NOLA that the words “Mardi Gras” translate in French to “Fat Tuesday.” And, of course, the finale of “Mardi Gras” does coincide on a Tuesday every year.

However, the Mardi Gras season extends far beyond just one crazy day. The madness begins on the 12th day after Christmas and runs for a good month and a half through Ash Wednesday – which marks the beginning of the Christian liturgical season of Lent.

There were AT LEAST three parades every day I was in the Big Easy, and I went to around six or seven total. Each parade has it’s own history, it’s own theme, it’s own winding route through the city, it’s own “krewe” of masked misfits, and, above all, it’s own assortments of “throws.”

[big]“Throw Me Something, Mista!”[/big]

Now, I’d like to take a little time to talk about “throws” and the art of bead snatching. The first thing that must be understood is that Mardi Gras “throws” aren’t all beads. Yes, the majority of items tossed from the passing floats are beads of all shapes and colors but the truly valued prizes – the ones that make the crowd go wild – are the little toys – the stuffed animals, the mini-footballs, the frisbees, the felt-covered spears, the coosh balls, and above all: DA BLINKY THINGS!!!

Now, I don’t know what it is about shiny, blinking objects that make grown men and women act like six year olds hyped up on Red Bull, but I must confess that I was as guilty as any other. When da blinky things were teasingly brandished by the float-side throwers, I jumped and screamed like a little girl. If I had tits I woulda shown them. If I had nunchucks, there woulda been some battered and bruised grandmothers and grandchildren littered all over the streets. I mean, I wanted da blinky things more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.

And I tried. And I tried. And I tried and tried and tried. But nobody would throw me a blinky.

And then it happened.

Time seemed to slow down as that beautiful flashing medallion spiraled towards me. My eyes zoomed in like F-16 locking on its target. With visions of Lynn Swan-style Super Bowl glory running through my head, I bent my knees and leapt into the air high above the screaming masses. My eyes sparkled as the plastic prize arched directly into my outstretched hands. Coming down with my trophy, I broke out into the most obnoxious celebratory dance humanity has ever had the unfortunate task of enduring. I felt like the greatest human being on the planet. With that blinking token of triumph around my neck, I felt invincible – utterly superior to all those lowly cretins who lacked a blinky thing. For the time being, I was immortal.

But apparently, immortality doesn’t last forever.

Later that night I grew tired of the enormous weight of beads and trinkets around my neck, so I took them off and stored them in a dark corner of a bar. It was only when I made it back to our lodgings that night that I realized I’d left all my hard-earned throws behind. D’oh!

Now, I could probably write an entire book about the subject of beads and “throws,” but I just want to make one more point before I move on.

And that point is that during Mardi Gras there are absolutely NO RULES nor etiquette in regards to attaining beads. Let me give you an example: Numerous times during the parades, I would snatch beads at the same time as the person next to me. One time, in fact, I jumped up and grabbed a set of four beaded necklaces wound together only to realize Jabba The Hut’s twin sister standing next to me had simultaneously grabbed hold on the other end of the four entangled beads.

Now in a normal world of manners and decency, the logical solution to this impasse was clear: We split the four beads evenly, two apiece. That made good sense to me, so I let go of my grip and turned to face Ms. The Hut to divvy up the spoils. I smiled at her, but SHE DIDN’T EVEN LOOK MY WAY! For a good thirty seconds, I stood there completely dumbfounded at what has just transpired. This monstrous woman just stole beads that, in my untrained mind, I believed I had legitimately earned.

But such is the way of Mardi Gras. Time after time I allowed my giant weakness – a sense of common decency – rob me of beads that could have been mine had I been willing to wrestle them away from whiny little children or their ruthless parents.

Next time I find myself at Mardi Gras, trust me, I will come prepared to fight. There will be no mercy for the weak.

[big]The Man Who DIDN’T Get Bourbon-Faced on Shit Street[/big]

Of course, in addition to the parades, Mardi Gras in New Orleans is all about Bourbon Street. Now, I didn’t know much about Bourbon Street before this trip, but I knew it had a reputation for three things: music, tits, and getting shit-faced. And it did not disappoint on any of those three accounts.

Stepping over growing piles of bead casualties and crushed plastic cups, my comrade Unai and I waded through a swarm of humanity. As the night wore on that swarm grew louder, drunker, and (mostly for the women) more willing to expose themselves for beads. It truly was debauchery at it’s most debaucherous. (Okay, spell check didn’t like that one. Let’s try: “debaucheristic.” Fuck. Uh, how ‘bout “debauchafragelisticexpealidocious.” Okay, nevermind. Let’s just say it was “crazy-crazy.”)

But, truth be told, debauchery isn’t really my scene, so I spent most of my nights at the still-crazy but much less obnoxious bars and clubs on Frenchman. And, for no particular reason other than to be contrary, I decided I’d try to go straight-edge (no drugs, no alcohol) during the entirety of my stay. And I succeeded more or less. In five days and five nights of virtually non-stop partying (I saw the sunrise twice!), I consumed only five alcoholic beverages. That averages out to only one per day. I really should call up the good folks at the Guinness (no alcoholic pun intended) Book of World Records and see if I didn’t just break the record for “Most Sober Mardi Gras in Recorded History.”

But in spite (or possibly because) of my sobriety, I had one ball of a time. I can truly say that New Orleans is a national treasure. In many ways it’s very much like Las Vegas – where virtually anything goes. But it’s Las Vegas with soul. It’s Las Vegas with history and with class.

Only in New Orleans can you finish off a night of dancing with some powdered beignets and coffee at the world-famous Café Du Monde. Only in New Orleans can you go out to a five-star dinner dressed up in the most garish of costumes and the hostess won’t think a thing of it. And only in New Orleans, at least only in post-Katrina New Orleans, can you drive yourself from the First World to the Third World in a matter of minutes.”

“Laissez le bon temps rouler again and forever for NOLA.”

[small]*Go download “George Bush Don’t Like Black People” (to the tune of Kanye West’s Golddigger) by Houston hip-hop artists the Legendary K.O. It came out a mere week or two after Katrina hit and I still think it may be one of the most potent political songs I’ve ever heard.[/small]