|
This week is Mardi Gras in Louisiana.
Otherwise known as "Fat Tuesday," a term I
take personal offense with, it is a strange
holiday derived from strange traditions in
which people dress up in strange garb and
throw beads and candy at each other from
parade floats.
It is one of the few holidays that the
newspaper I work for closes down half a day
for. However, we in the newsroom must cover
the local Mardi Gras parade that begins at
1 p.m. and lasts a couple hours. Otherwise,
I'd be fishing.
Here's the story behind Mardi Gras, in case
you don't know: Mardi Gras is the day before
Ash Wednesday and Lent. It's a decidedly
Catholic thing, spiced with traditions from
other cultures. Essentially, the idea is "live
it up before you have to give up something and
be good for Lent." I'm not picking on Catholics,
mind you, but down here, that's exactly how
Cajun folks look at it.
Of course, New Orleans is the famous capital
of the Mardi Gras season, where people line
up in the French Quarter and along historic
Bourbon Street in anticipation of being mugged.
A couple I know who made a trip to New Orleans
to enjoy Mardi Gras had their car stolen and
burned to a cinder under an overpass near Lake
Pontchartrain. But the streets line with revelers,
with jazz music and time-honored standards such
as "Mardi Gras Mambo" by The Hawketts and "Go To
The Mardi Gras" by Professor Longhair. People
collect beads thrown to them, put them around
their necks until they topple over face-first
on the concrete, and are usually surprised to
find there's a virtual community of fellow fallen
people down there at ankle level. They compare the
quality of their beads with other members of the
toppled.
There is a such thing as the Mardi Gras "krewe"
which is a club you can join to have access to
the floats so you can throw beads at people. A
few years ago, the Chitimacha Tribe began having
a Mardi Gras parade, and in a brilliant turning
of the tables after that ill-conceived bargain
made over Manhattan Island, the Indians are now
throwing the beads back at the descendants of those
who made that deal. I find something oddly humorous
about that.
There are other traditions involved in New Orleans
during Mardi Gras, involving how attractive young
ladies obtain special beads, but you know that
story, and this is, after all, a family-oriented
column.
In order to catch more beads, though, some people
wear beer-drinking hats. These hats do not drink
beer themselves. These are remarkable headgear
that hold two cans of beer over the ears, with
straws leading to the mouth, so the wearer can
just suck beer through the straws and keep his
hands free to catch beads, or fend off pickpockets,
whatever the case may be. Cajun ingenuity at its
best.
I went to Bourbon Street once in my life, and it
wasn't during Mardi Gras. I stay clear of New
Orleans within a week either side of Mardi Gras.
In fact, I try to stay clear of New Orleans in
general. People don't understand this.
"You'd have to have a hole in your head not to
enjoy Mardi Gras in New Orleans!" they say.
Precisely my point. I avoid New Orleans to avoid
getting a hole in my head. But the one time I
went to Bourbon Street with some pals we went
to Pat O'Brien's and drank hurricanes. Hurricanes
are concoctions that contain fifteen different
types of alcohol and about a thimble full of
fruit juice. The three of us emerged from Pat
O's arm in arm, singing Hank Williams Jr.'s
"Family Tradition" as we made our way down
Bourbon Street, pushing past the ladies of
the evening, winos and street gangs. Remarkably,
we found our car, remarkably the tires were still
on it and remarkably we had the good sense not
to drive it.
Soon as the local parade is over, I'm outta
town. If the weather's halfway decent, I go
fishing, if not, I hide in the house from
the revelers who simply cannot understand
why I don't enjoy dressing up in outlandish
costumes and throwing beads at people, all
the while consuming copious amounts of alcohol
and investigating the sidewalk ankle-level
community in my town.
"Ayyyyyyyy-eeeeeee!" they yell, a Cajun
expression that means, "Ayyyyyyyy-eeeeeee!"
and is akin to "laissez les bons temps rouler"
or "let the good times roll," usually applicable
to your car being towed away since you parked it
in the path of the Krewe of Nutria's parade.
Especially in New Orleans, everyone is drinking,
but there are no public restrooms open, and
someone has stolen all the port-a-potties by
noon. These mysteriously re-emerge months later
outside hunting camps deep in the river basin.
Finally, the fateful day is over, and city
crews take to the streets to pick up the odd
missed bead necklaces, ignored Tootsie Rolls
(nobody picks up the little mini Tootsie Rolls,
they go terrible with beer) and various other
unsavorable unmentionables. Revelers awake the
next day and go back to work, bragging about
what a good time they've had, how many beads
they caught, how bad their heads hurt, and how
soon the police will find their cars, hopefully
with all parts accounted for.
Now, in an effort to make this column somehow
fly fishing related, I think I shall tie a
commemorative Mardi Gras fly this year. It
will be, of course, purple, green and gold
with lots of flashabou and crystal flash and
dumbell eyes. I am thinking I shall tie this
fly in about size 1/0 to accommodate the
beer-drinking headgear, approximated above
the dumbell eyes with strands of rubber
skirting material to imitate the straws. It
will sink like a rock and catch entire
parades of fish. I shall name it "Krewe of
Lunker" and you will need a ten-weight rod
to cast it. Posting bond is entirely up
to you. ~ Roger
|
