Mardi Gras Millennial Madness

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New Orleans, USA - February, 2000

The snakes in the bayou do the cha-cha when Mardi Gras comes to town, as New Orleans transforms from a hot, creepy powderkeg into a hot, creepy powderkeg with the fuse lit. I was en-route to stay at the mansion of none other than a Louisiana Supreme Court Judge, during a special time of year when the city becomes twisted and colorful - like the grim reaper doing handstands at the crest of a neon rainbow.

OK, backup. A friend of mine had a friend who happened to come from old southern money and power; dad a judge, mom a state prosecutor. We cracked an invite to the mansion, just a block from St Charles Street and bead-hurling distance from Mardi Gras infamous processions. Figuring I had the ultimate get out of jail card, I packed a clown suit and arrived to fanfare at the Louis Armstrong International Airport. Actually, the fanfare was for Luke Perry, who happened to be on my flight and was scheduled, along with Britney Spears, Harry Connick Jnr, Whoopi Goldberg, to ride the floats. Although it was spring, the heat enclosed me like thermal underwear in a sauna. Fortunately, a cabbie was on hand to distract me with some worthy socio-economic background.

60% of New Orleans is African American, and 90% of its wealth belongs to 10% of its population, 90% of whom are white. Of the people I met, some had great-grandparents who owned slaves, and some had great-grandparents who were slaves. Driving past the weathered, broken projects and through tree-lined suburbs with gorgeous art deco mansions, it appeared as if nothing had changed. The judge, being a renowned social activist, lived in a three story southern house just two blocks from the projects. Given a week of general drunken mayhem mixed with a cocktail of racial and economic tension, it assured me this trip would merit its gonzo status.

I was warmly greeted by that famous southern hospitality, given a key and a debriefing as to how Mardi Gras works. Essentially, there are huge organizations representing different political, social and economic communities that spend anything from $25 000 to $750 000 each year on floats. They follow a route throughout the city, ending at the edge of the French Quarter, where they toast the mayor. On each float, inebriated participants have donated wads of cash to throw thousands of colored beads and cheap carnival toys into the mob that line the street all the way. Each float, designed like a Broadway show, reflects a different theme or story, but most people are too busy yelling for beads to know what they are. With names like Orpheus, Zulu, Bacchus and Rex, it all leads to Fat Tuesday, the climax of Mardi Gras. Moving between floats are local groups, school and army bands, cheerleaders and dance troupes. You haven’t seen sweat till you see an overdressed fat kid with a tuba, walking fifteen miles across town in the stifling Louisiana heat.

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