Hey there, ‘Redheads… I was planning to finally conclude my three part travelogue of my trip to drunken fever dream that was Mardi Gras, but as we get further removed from it, it’s becoming clear as the ice in my bottomless glass of whiskey and ginger ale that my memories of the trip might as well have been transcribed on an Etch-A-Sketch by Michael J. Fox. Sure, I’ve got pictures to help piece things together, but none of them are of anything you guys really want to hear about. Plenty of shots of the parade on Fat Tuesday.
The floats…The people who were mistaken for floats…I was perched on our hotel balcony to watch as people flooded down Bourbon Street. Right below was where the religious outreach folks set up shop to shout the good word through a megaphone at the stumbling revelry. They meant well, but this wasn’t the most receptive audience, which is kind of ironic since the whole party serves a religious purpose. Some people consider seeing boobs in exchange for plastic beads a miracle. Anyway, this was the scene on Bourbon Street at 2pm on Fat Tuesday…When night fell, we set up shop on another part of the balcony to do some bead tossing. It’s harder than it looks. Once you find a decent target, you’ve got to take things like distance, angle, and wind into consideration. And most of them weren’t paying attention, so you had to hit a moving target. I could’ve used a bead caddy. It turned into a game of, well, whoreshoes. More often than not, some drunk musclehead would snatch the beads anyway. The most fun was being had by the guy next to us, who was teasing the women below with a giant interwoven strand of beads. He kept shouting down to them, “These are bunghole beads! Show me your bunghole!” The best part was watching women actually think about it. Kudos, sir.
And by the way, I’ve been seeing some corny ads for Applebee’s running during the NCAA tournament for their new entrees with the “taste of Bourbon Street.” So, if you want your steak to taste like flop sweat and regret, bon appetit.
See you Tuesday.