Today, I'm skipping work in honor of Mardi Gras.
It's very unusal for me to have to work on Mardi Gras. I spent the first 18 years of my life in southeast Louisiana (Slidell, a suburb of New Orleans on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain. Although I'm certainly not Cajun or Creole (that's mostly southwest LA, Acadiana and such), I did grow up around swamps and bayous, eating alligator and crawfish, spending most of my time fishing (I used to have an airbrushed license plate on my truck, a bright orange '73 Ford F100 Custom, that said "I'd Rather Be Fishing.") Yes, I pretty much lived the coon-ass life (coon-ass being a member of the "redneck" family that is found only in Louisiana).
The reason I mention all this is because growing up essentially in New Orleans, land of Mardi Gras, I'm used to having several days off from work to be used exclusively for partying. I should be hearing excessive amounts of zydeco music while drinking a massively overpriced Natural Light and eating a Lucky Dog. There should be women baring it all for nickel and dime bead strands. There should be a distinct odor of vomit and urine that clings to the parade route and is continually sitrred up by the passing of decadent, gaudy and largely (homo)erotic floats.
I will tell you 2 of my favorite Mardi Gras stories:
#1. When I was a sophomore (I think) in high school, I had my first *real* Mardi Gras experience. I had been to the "family-oriented" parades in the surrounding towns (Slidell, Metarie and Chalmette being the usual favorites) and had been to several of the wilder parades in New Orleans (Endymion and Bacchus were always my favorites), but always under parental supervision. This time I went with a friend's family, who didn't seem to give a rat's ass where we ended up. My friend and I wandered around Bourbon Street (it's what you'd expect from a street named after hooch), and came upon a group of drunken men crowded around a streetcorner. We tried to see what was going on, but neither of us were tall enough to see (especially my friend, who looks *exactly* like a miniature Che Guevera). I climbed up the street sign while he squirmed in between legs, and lo! our puberty-ridden eyes did behold a marvelous sight. Some skanky woman was nude, paddling the pink canoe if you will, while her "pimp" collected beads from the crowd. Now, it's hard to make a living as a bead pimp or a bead pimp's whore, since one strand of beads goes for about a nickel, and nobody is going to buy your beads anyway, since there are free ones whizzing about incessantly. I guess they do it for the joy, and that lady sure did look like she was enjoying herself. Oh, how I remember the cries of "We want bush!" each time she tried to put some pants on. Eventually the cops came to bust up the scene, but my tiny friend was able to scamper off, and they didn't see me perched on the street sign. It's the kind of day a high school guy never forgets.
I'll tell you the other story later, that was pretty long.
It's very unusal for me to have to work on Mardi Gras. I spent the first 18 years of my life in southeast Louisiana (Slidell, a suburb of New Orleans on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain. Although I'm certainly not Cajun or Creole (that's mostly southwest LA, Acadiana and such), I did grow up around swamps and bayous, eating alligator and crawfish, spending most of my time fishing (I used to have an airbrushed license plate on my truck, a bright orange '73 Ford F100 Custom, that said "I'd Rather Be Fishing.") Yes, I pretty much lived the coon-ass life (coon-ass being a member of the "redneck" family that is found only in Louisiana).
The reason I mention all this is because growing up essentially in New Orleans, land of Mardi Gras, I'm used to having several days off from work to be used exclusively for partying. I should be hearing excessive amounts of zydeco music while drinking a massively overpriced Natural Light and eating a Lucky Dog. There should be women baring it all for nickel and dime bead strands. There should be a distinct odor of vomit and urine that clings to the parade route and is continually sitrred up by the passing of decadent, gaudy and largely (homo)erotic floats.
I will tell you 2 of my favorite Mardi Gras stories:
#1. When I was a sophomore (I think) in high school, I had my first *real* Mardi Gras experience. I had been to the "family-oriented" parades in the surrounding towns (Slidell, Metarie and Chalmette being the usual favorites) and had been to several of the wilder parades in New Orleans (Endymion and Bacchus were always my favorites), but always under parental supervision. This time I went with a friend's family, who didn't seem to give a rat's ass where we ended up. My friend and I wandered around Bourbon Street (it's what you'd expect from a street named after hooch), and came upon a group of drunken men crowded around a streetcorner. We tried to see what was going on, but neither of us were tall enough to see (especially my friend, who looks *exactly* like a miniature Che Guevera). I climbed up the street sign while he squirmed in between legs, and lo! our puberty-ridden eyes did behold a marvelous sight. Some skanky woman was nude, paddling the pink canoe if you will, while her "pimp" collected beads from the crowd. Now, it's hard to make a living as a bead pimp or a bead pimp's whore, since one strand of beads goes for about a nickel, and nobody is going to buy your beads anyway, since there are free ones whizzing about incessantly. I guess they do it for the joy, and that lady sure did look like she was enjoying herself. Oh, how I remember the cries of "We want bush!" each time she tried to put some pants on. Eventually the cops came to bust up the scene, but my tiny friend was able to scamper off, and they didn't see me perched on the street sign. It's the kind of day a high school guy never forgets.
I'll tell you the other story later, that was pretty long.
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fromthissoil:
I'M BAAAACCCKKK
les:
I hope since you haven't updated in so long it means you are out enjoying this awesome weather. 