First parade...

Bienville’s Wet Dream....

Went to our first Carnival parade last night. Rain stopped around 5. The Krewe du Vieux rolled at 7. Sarah and I caught the ferry in a fog that obscured the lights of the city hopefully forcing the captain to use technology beyond sounds of unseen wakes and the occasional fog horn. We followed the other tourists to join the hordes lining Dumane St. The Krewe newsletter, “Le Monde de Merde” describes the parade: “Bienville had a dream. Jean-Baptiste LeMoyne, Sierra de Bienville, dreamed of founding a great eternal city of gleaming buildings, educated people, thriving commerce, robust institutions—a true world capital. Three hundred years later, that dream is more like a lurid nocturnal fantasy, full of erotic rhythms and characters, melodies and mysteries, aromas and enchantments. Though it may be a pit of dysfunction decay, inequity and a thousand wasted opportunities, a muddy swampy, littered patch of beleaguered semi-high ground, New Orleans is also a rare gem, a deeply fragrant flower, a saxophone solo soaring over a soulful backbeat, a passionate mistress to all who love her so deeply. Bienville’s dream may have been all wet, but yet it flickers on.” Pre-warned by locals that this parade will be “raunchy” is not only accurate but an orgasmic understatement. Focusing on the ever present dysfunctional water and sewer system, I won’t bore you with the satirical illustrations provided by floats and marchers alike as they attempt to communicate the pathology of ineffective pumping action, directed at gaping holes in the landscape, with perpetual wet spots being displayed for all to scream, moan, or gush over. This parade makes the Rickies at the old Eugene Celebration parade look like the Monday morning march on Buckskin Bill’s Storyland, and oooweee, it was fun! 

Arriving quite early and quite thirsty, I made a quick procurement of a pint of Ezera at the little bodega around the corner and sipping from the brown paper bag we made new friends from Massachusetts, England, and Australia. As well as a gentlemen form N.O dispensing history, cups and libations to anyone holding out their hand. Finally, with the drums and horns of the marching band getting louder and blue lights on the police motorcycles reflecting off the balconies, our excitement builds. Floats pulled by mules or human participants we are awed by the graphic depictions as marchers in period costumes of white powder wigs and colonial undergarments or genitalia hidden in pizza boxes (!?) handed out tokens of wooden nickels redeemable for “one free ride”, beads, bottle caps with KDV glittered on as their official doubloon, or even pickles. 

After the last float, we disperse with the rest of the crowd to wander the Quarter for a while joining the revealers hooting and hollering in the shadows and still make the ferry just in time as the last boat sails for the west side.