Back to Tulane: Mardi Gras revival
Perhaps the best representation of the indomitable spirit of New Orleans is Mardi Gras.
Nowhere else in the country celebrates it quite the way New Orleans does. For some reason, not enough metropolitan areas in America think it's a good idea to shut down the entire city for four days so that mysterious, masked societies of people who enjoy decorating their flatbeds with styrofoam and papier-màché can throw beads at drunks. It's that kind of backward thinking that is keeping our country down.
But New Orleans understands the true cathartic value of such an event, and no hurricanes will keep us from, well, drinking hurricanes and fighting our fellow citizens over foam stress-reliever skulls with "Krewe d'Etat" imprinted where the occipital lobe should be.
One interesting problem that arises during Mardi Gras is where one should relieve oneself. In an all-day outdoor event that involves a great deal of alcohol consumption for many people, it is obvious that people will have to relieve themselves on more than one occasion. This is a major issue because public urination is one of the few acts that will actually get you arrested at Mardi Gras. And if the rumors are true, because of the lack of capacity at central lockup in New Orleans these days, getting arrested this year means you get sent straight to the state prison in Angola.
Thankfully, I did not get to see firsthand whether that was so. But regardless of the site of imprisonment, it is a circumstance you want to avoid. To solve this problem, we turn to the one thing mankind can always depend on—portable potties.
They are everywhere during Mardi Gras. The city provides some; others are brought out by groups and cost a buck or three to use. It is actually a pretty common fundraiser this time of year: use of a bathroom to rebuild New Orleans public schools. It may be helping a good cause, but it seems to me that the money just isn't clean. My group decided just to rent one for our own private use.
On the Saturday preceding the actual Fat Tuesday, there was a slight break in the festivities, as the forecast called for a 100 percent chance of rain. Some parades scheduled for Saturday were pushed forward to Sunday, and Sunday night became quite a marathon. After all the parades came by our Port-O-Let station on St. Charles, I wandered off to Bourbon Street with a few friends to throw at other people the beads that the krewes had thrown at us.
By the time I arrived in the French Quarter, I was pretty positive that Mardi Gras had gone off just as well this year as last—despite all the talk that there would not even be a Mardi Gras this year. I don't know about the number of tourists, but the scene was just like what it is supposed to be: the same crowded streets and bars, the same ladders and jumpers trying to catch beads, the same SuperKrewes with their elaborate floats, the same cars parked on the sidewalks downtown.
And we called it Mardi Gras, and it was good.
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