I Love a Parade
My descent into Mardi Gras mayhem....
It starts so innocently. I’m watching my first parade, drink in one hand, absorbing the scene like the mature adult I claim to be. A float passes by, filled with masked riders tossing trinkets into the crowd. Without thinking, I put my non-drink hand in the air and a string of shiny, purple beads wraps itself around my fingers. I put the beads around my neck, raise my hand again (this time with intention), and it happens again. And again and again and…
Mardi Gras. I know it ended last month, but some experiences take time to absorb.
Here’s a starter quiz:
You’re watching a Mardi Gras parade when someone in your immediate vicinity yells, “Come on, throw me something!” What do you do?
A. Observe the moment like a cultural anthropologist.
B. Whisper the words, to try them on for size.
C. Realize the person yelling is…you?
The answer, for me, is C. Standing on a parade viewing platform outside the condo of dear friends who’ve invited us for the weekend, I’m a woman transformed. Those Mardi Gras float riders aren’t just tossing beads. They’re tossing bling-encrusted sunglasses, footballs, baby dolls, plastic cups, baby dolls in plastic cups. Light-up necklaces that blink, flash, strobe. Plastic coins, playing cards, a plunger (thankfully unused). The emotional water balloon that bursts inside me when my husband snags a necklace with a light-up acorn pendant goes so far beyond jealousy I can’t even see it anymore. But then I snag a necklace with a rubber chicken pendant that squeaks, and vindication is mine.
It isn’t long before I’m diving for necklaces, weighing whether to wrestle a koozie from the tiny fingers of a toddler, on the cusp of slapping a pair of rhinestone-covered sunglasses from the arthritic grasp of a little old lady. I sweet-talk my husband out of a carton of Moon Pies that landed on his head—and leverage it to negotiate a strategic alliance with the man next to me for a t-shirt I will never wear. But I want that shirt. I need that shirt. I. Must. Have. That. Shirt. I have no idea what I’m going to do with this stuff, but I don’t care!
And these aren’t even the “premium” throws.
The throw de la throw, our hosts inform us, is thrown in the parade run by the all-female Krewe of Muses—in a word, shoes. In more words, actual shoes, from actual closets, repurposed into blinged-up objets d’art. A shoe from a Muse is the Holy Grail of throws.
We spend a healthy portion of the next afternoon making posters to attract the attention of float-riding Muses with shoeses. We also spend a less-healthy portion of the afternoon engaging in what my sons call “pregaming.” But we are grown-ups, so we call it “cocktails.”
I bring my A-game to the Poster Project, churning out irresistible phrases like “Shoe Me Some Love!” and “Save My Sole.” I’m ready to move on to “Heel Me,” but we’re using prismatic stick-on letters to enhance the “wow” factor, and we’re out of E’s. No matter. The poetry of our posters is foolproof—if by “foolproof,” you mean we’re proven to be fools.
Out on the viewing platform, we are poets on a mission. We wave our posters at the Muses, do our best to make eye contact, plead our case to every passing float. But Commerce destroys Poetry. We’re undone by a woman standing next to us with a net at the end of a pole—a net covered in tiny airplane bottles of booze and a sign: “Grab a Shot. Leave a Shoe.”
Merde! By the time the last float rolls by, Net Lady, who only has two feet (I checked) has three—THREE!—Muse shoes and zero bottles of booze. We, meanwhile, haven’t even snagged a pair of orthotics. Next year, I’m bringing puppies and a poster that reads, “Give Me a Shoe and Nothing Happens to the Dog.” Just kidding. I love dogs. But I do love shoes….
The next morning, we venture into the French Quarter for an event called The Greasing of the Poles that, sadly, does not involve baby oil and a couple of guys named Pavel and Janosch. Rather, it’s a competition that involves greasing the poles in front of the Royal Sonesta Hotel to keep Mardi Gras revelers from climbing onto the balcony.
Unfortunately, as a short person in a tall crowd, I can’t verify this. I hear a lot of hooting. I smell some weed. I watch a balcony across the street, where folks celebrating The Greasing of the Poles seem to justify the need for the event.
I may not get to see The Greasing of the Poles, but I do get to observe a broad range of Mardi Gras fashions. I have certain expectations when it comes to fashion. I like shirts that provide a little coverage. I also like pants with legs and shorts that extend below the waist, which makes me a bit of an outlier in the French Quarter. But I do find one Mardi Gras fashion item that piques my interest. Chewbacca Leg Warmers.
I didn’t invent Chewbacca Leg Warmers, but I did invent the name. I become obsessed with Chewbacca Leg Warmers, pointing out every pair I see throughout the weekend. Until I price them and realize I cannot bring myself to buy Chewbacca Leg Warmers because (a) they aren’t cheap; and (b) they’re not made of real fur. Please do not send me Chewbacca Leg Warmers.
The highlight of the weekend, the reason we are here (beside good friends), comes on Saturday—the Endymion Ball, an intimate gathering of 20,000 held on the floor of the Superdome. It’s a black-tie event, so we wear tuxes, floor-length gowns, and blingy sneakers as we tote the wheeled coolers that hold our evening’s beverages. And after dinner, we make our way to the mezzanine for the parade. The parade.
One of the highlights of the Endymion Ball is the fact that the Endymion Parade—one of Mardi Gras’ biggest with almost 40 floats carrying 3,200 riders—finishes during the ball with a lap inside the Superdome. This offers the float riders, many of whom have been drinking for hours, one last chance to jettison their remaining throws. There’s a word for this. Mayhem.
Some people wear hard hats to the Endymion Ball. We’re up in the mezzanine and I still get hit in the head with a blinking frisbee. But at least it’s lost some momentum en route. Which is good, because the night is young, and I have no idea where First Aid is. Also, Katy Perry (that Katy Perry) hasn’t come on yet. Or Train (that Train). After the parade ends (close to 11:00 pm), our friends head to the floor for the concert. We stay in the mezzanine to take it all in. I also take a little nap. (Katy Perry’s a firework, but I’m not.) By the time we leave, 2:00 am is in the rearview mirror, and Train’s just getting started.
Sunday brings more parades, but as the weekend draws to a close, the flow of throws takes on a strange sort of reverse osmosis. Throws still flow from floats to spectators, but a healthy proportion are tossed in the other direction. Not necessarily at the floats but at everything else. The streetcar wire. Through the open window of an apartment across the street. Onto an adjacent balcony. The crowd, it seems, has had its fill. And so have we.
As we watched the Endymion Parade navigate through the Superdome, one of my companions leaned my way and said, “With everything going on in the world, this could only happen in The City That Care Forgot.” She nailed it. Before we arrived, I’d struggled with the idea of casting my lot with frivolity in an exceedingly un-frivolous time. But just as there are things that demand our energy, there are things that restore it. For the weekend, at least, I didn’t forget, but I did forget to care. Just for a weekend. It was weird. It was restorative. And it was fabulous. And then, it was over.
When times are trying, do you allow yourself to spontaneously combust over and over again, or do you take the time to find your joy? It’s not a quiz. The answer is both. Besides, spontaneous combustion isn’t exactly a long-term strategy.
Maybe do send me those Chewbacca Leg Warmers?
Hey! Mardi Gras isn’t the only opportunity for foolishness and fun on the calendar! If you’d like to learn some fun facts about St. Patrick’s Day, check out Fun Fact Friyay, by Joey Held. (Joey’s also got a piece on April Fool’s Day coming out today!) No fooling — Joey offers a fun fact every Friday in under two minutes. Give it a try!
Clever and amusing as usual! Being present at this parade would be lots of fun, although I'm not sure I would like to be exposed to flying shoes!
Lots of gems here, Amanda. Give Me a Shoe and Nothing Happens to the Dog. That one threw me. So I guess I am a throw.