Its’ Mardi Gras time, motherf*ckers! The season is upon us, and now that the Super Bowl is out of the way, New Orleans can get down to business. If you’ve ever visited the Crescent City during Carnival season, you know that is something that natives take very seriously.
How seriously? If forced to choose between paying rent on time and affording the perfect Mardi Gras outfit, a disturbing number of locals will be sleeping in a sequined tent under I-10 before they step out of the house on Fat Tuesday in anything less than a purple-green-and-gold look that is Instagram worthy.
What can I say? It’s a cultural phenomenon that turns an entire city into a liquor-soaked, bead-covered, king cake baby-fueled celebration every year. But why?
It’s a religious obligation (sorta kinda). Despite its reputation for tits and dicks, Mardi Gras is a Catholic tradition. Fat Tuesday is the last day to indulge before Lent’s season of sacrifice. But New Orleans has interpreted this holy excuse as a reason for a six-or-seven-week-long carnival of excess.
Somewhere along the way, at an undisclosed after-hours, our ancestors agreed that a single day of partying was for amateurs. Now, as soon as the Christmas lights come down and the withering tree they hung from gets tossed to the curb, it’s time to break out the gaudy Miss Clawdy.
Aside from being an elaborate excuse to get drunk at 8 a.m., Mardi Gras is not just about the booze, though, to be honest, it’s a lot about the booze. It’s about tradition, sacred plans, and practices handed down through years of experience. Inside information passed down through the spoken word of our elders, guarded rites of passage every New Orleanian must know. In New Orleans, you cannot graduate high school without knowing which parades are worth your time, where to stand, and how to catch throws without looking desperate. Desperation is for tourists.
Carnival revelry cannot compare to the Super Bowl, but Mardi Gras is also a competitive sport. To the uninitiated, Mardi Gras may look like pretty floats rolling down the street with riders tossing trinkets. To a local? It’s war.
For starters, you don’t just show up at a parade and expect to catch the good shit. No, no, no. If you want a prime spot, you have to plan and coordinate restroom locations and cross-reference parade routes with parking rules and traffic patterns. Sometimes, it involves tarps, ladders, cold beer, and an uncle who knows a guy. Actual parade-going pros also have an exit strategy, so they’re not sitting in the family truckster bumper to bumper for hours long after the parade has passed by.
Having a prime viewing spot is not enough. Once the parade begins to roll, your throw-catching skills come into play. The goal is to look cool, not too grabby, but assertive enough to catch a rider’s eye tossing that season’s most sought after prizes. I’m not saying that you have to fuck them, but if you want the light-up beads, the hand-painted coconut, or a glittery stiletto, you have to make them think that you might.
To an outsider, the chaotic gnashing and swinging of the crowd must look like a vibrantly colored prison. The inhabitants of New Orleans aren’t savages, and contrary to what many might think, Mardi Gras is, at heart, a family-oriented celebration. Even the most decorated soldiers of the Gras, whether in the stands or on the streets, know that there is an etiquette not to be violated: Women and children first.
Try snatching a plushy throw that a small child has already locked eyes on and see what happens. You’ve just made lifelong enemies of that child’s entire bloodline. Consider yourself lucky if there aren’t four slashed tires when you make it back to your car.
When it comes to costumes, either go big or stay home. Mardi Gras is Halloween for grownups. In New Orleans, costumes are more than encouraged; they are expected. A respectable Mardi Gras costume should be over the top, colorful, and, preferably, outrageous. Sequins? Required. Feathers? More is more. A red crushed velvet crawfish bodysuit with rhinestones and articulating claws? Now we’re talking.
Group efforts are always appreciated; the more NSFW, the better. A family of cardboard-fabricated Transformers is adorable, but watching a collection of bearded, “un-tucked” Vegas showgirls or a clan of boozy walking vaginas gets the party started.
As ambassadors by association, New Orleanians understand that it is their civic duty to demonstrate Mardi Gras pride while the Big Easy hosts the Greatest Free Show on Earth.
Visiting and resident Debby Downers, be warned. Locals will judge you if your “costume” attempt is slapping on a few beads half-heartedly with accessories picked up at the gas station. And they will do so with the full force of someone who has spent an entire month’s rent on fabric and Michael’s craft store for the sake of a single day’s revelry.
Not only will a die-hard New Orleanian surrender the monthly rent that barely keeps his head above water, but he will also forgo any extra opportunities to make up for it. Having a job is cute, but nobody’s working on Mardi Gras (or the Monday before it, most likely). Schools shut down, offices go dark, and except for the police, if your employer DOES ask you to work on Fat Tuesday, you’re almost legally obligated to quit immediately. It’s the law of economics. Running a business during parade season isn’t cost-effective when half the office is hung over from the previous night’s festivities.
Sadly, the magic of Mardi Gras suffers its predictable end. On Tuesday evening, when the clock strikes midnight, the police disperse the crowds. At the same time, a sanitation truck battalion sweeps away six weeks of garbage, broken beads, cups, sequins, and vomit, doing their best to erase any evidence of debauchery.
Its aftermath leaves beads in the trees and glitter in your soul. The floats return to their den. The treasured loot of beads and trinkets so valiantly earned has lost its importance and for the next twenty-four hours, New Orleans enters a strange, quiet mourning period during which everyone suddenly remembers they have jobs, bills, and obligations.
New Orleans wakes on Ash Wednesday in a collective existential crisis. A city of hung-over zombies with dirty foreheads attempts to return to their routine, struggling through the day and hoping to make it through lunch.
Mardi Gras morning after survivors are easy to spot. They are likely sitting quietly, drinking coffee, wearing sunglasses, and cringing at loud noises. Perhaps a stray string of tinsel in their hair or a speck of glitter. And as their paths intertwine, each nods to the other with the unspoken understanding of, “See you next year.”
Thank you for reading. Please feel free to share your thoughts on this article or suggest topics for the future.
RyanRockfordNYC@gmail.com
