Last year, we kept an eye on the weather, but finally decided it was too cold, rainy and stormy to bike Uptown for the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. But Saturday dawned clear and blue—that strange deep blue the sky is here; it never turns hot-white, like L.A. skies—so Lycia and I arranged to either bike or cab to the Irish Channel and cab or walk, if necessary, home. I put on jeans, boots and a sweater in case I had to hike that far. I went to Rose Nicaud for an iced coffee and a bran muffin, which I didn’t eat. Then I bought a six-pack of warmish Miller Lite and stuck three and a bottle of water in my bag.
Don’t know why I bothered dressing comfortably. Lycia showed up at 11:30 a.m. in front of the park wearing a black bra, bright green stretch-lace camisole, see-through black tulle petticoat and tiny little Irish top hat strapped to the side of her head. And glitter shamrocks on the cheeks. No one noticed, of course, but I felt like a dandelion next to a tiger lily.
We got a cab at Marigny Brasserie and enjoyed the driver’s lively play-by-play of how annoying the traffic was, whether the cars on the interstate were going “up and over” or getting off at Claiborne, debating the merits of taking a downtown street and hating on dump trucks, New Orleans drivers and most other things. I love how much you can learn about a stranger’s life in 20 minutes—how often he works, where he lives, where he goes on his days off, his ex, his other ex, his drinking habits. Lycia busted out a can of beer in the car—after asking the driver, of course (“Just don’t let the cops see you,” he said, “and don’t leave the empties. Can’t have an open container.”)
We got as close as we could and walked toward Lycia and Jeff’s friends’ house, the streets already lining with people, many of whom had chairs, for all the good that would do them, coolers and green, green, green. (I did wear the scarf, after all.)
Jeff and Jackson have a lovely little shotgun Uptown with a big front porch. She (Jackson) was at Jeff’s birthday party in May dressed as a female baseball player from the ’40s. I might have a picture around here somewhere. They own a construction company and their friend Rusty, from Nashville, was staying with them and working for the company temporarily. He’s an electrical engineer and outdoorsy hunter type whose girlfriend, in grad school, is back in Nashville. There were a few other people there, so we drank mimosas and nibbled on deviled eggs, sausage slices, fruit, quiche and what was rumored to be two-week-old coffee cake moistened up with green icing.
Neighbors came by, but mostly neighbors’ dogs came by, the most frequent visitor being Chloe, who had no interest in being petting but plenty of interest in the coffee cake. We got her hopped up on sugary goofballs before her owner rescued us from the abusive dog-feeders and hauled her away.
The mass begins at noon, and the parade at 1, so we walked over to—I don’t even know; Magazine?—to watch the parade from the beginning, planning to loop back to where it ends and catch it again. We staked out a curbside spot for maximum goodie-nabbing, Jackson and I insisting that we weren’t going to kiss any Irishmen for fake flowers. No way.
Lycia’s costume was, of course, a hit. “You’re gonna get a lot of beads!” guys yelled at her. That, and “I like your hat.” Jackson and I giggled—”and by ‘hat’ he means ‘boobs.’”
The vanguard are the walking crews, mobs of men in black suits with various festive accoutrements who carry styrofoam columns stuck with flowers. These they hand out to women in exchange for a kiss on the cheek. Well, I really wanted some flowers, and Lycia with the girls out, and Jackson being a cute blonde, were getting all the attention. Plus, it was very warm. So I took off my sweater and stripped down to a sleeveless black T-shirt, sticking flowers in my shoulder strap to cover the horrific bruise I got from the medicine cabinet.
When Lycia and Jackson went to the bathroom, I had much better luck with the flowers. Aside from the occasional redhead-fan, I didn’t attract much attention. I stuck them in my bosom, all around the waistband of my jeans, until they were falling out in the gutters. Your perspective really changes during these silly parades. I remember Neighbor Dave telling me last year that he had been here for Mardi Gras and, when they ask you to bark like a dog or whatever, he was like, why not? Nobody knows me. And anyway, when the swag was really cool, like big, Christmas-ornament-sized beads or beads with a big plastic alligator hanging from it, you wanted it. So when the coveted green silk roses, or black carnations, came around, well, let’s just say I barked like a dog.
Then the floats come through, with music, beads, treats and what everyone comes for—ingredients for Irish stew. In fatter years, you’ll see more onions and carrots, but there were plenty of cabbages and some potatoes. Lycia and Jackson jumped and screamed for cabbages, and I think we got about five, along with some King Cake marshmallow treats, packages of peanuts, one potato (I believe Jackson ran out in the street to fetch this) and—weird—a little bag of baby carrots.
I did mention we continued to drink throughout the parade?
So, once it ended, we scurried over to its last stretch, getting seats on the curb in front of a Jewish deli that let us pee for free. Lycia’s neighbor/tenant, Jill, was on display in a kelly green stretch catsuit with a cooler of beers. (We switched out her cold ones for our warm ones.) The end of the parade is the best part, because by that time, a crew will often devolve to one drunk guy in a rumpled suit carrying a denuded styrofoam column and weaving down the street. There was still swag for the taking, but at that point they were tossing, like, whole unopened bags of beads, which we left in the gutters. Got a thong, as you can see in the picture, and a Mad Libs game, a headband with glittery shamrock doodlebops on springs, and a clackety-thingy in the shape of a shamrock. Actually, the thong was for Jackson; she felt sorry for wallflower me and made a gift of it. I shall think of her every time I see it my lingerie drawer and wonder, “How the hell did I come into possession of a Kiss Me I’m Irish thong?”
The end of the parade was more like a street party; very disorganized and fun, with people dancing in the streets. We finally headed to Parasol’s, at my insistence, because it’s supposed to be the big scene and I wanted to see it. We threaded our way over, stopping again to pay $1 to pee in one of three port-a-pottys in a parking lot, then sat on a curb in front of the bar to watch the mess. Lycia bought a plastic green party hat filled with jello shots and insisted everyone had to take a shot. By that time, I was doing my everyone’s-so-drunk-they-won’t-notice-I’m-not-drinking thing and accepted a little plastic cup at her insistence (“I paid twenty dollars for it; you have to do a shot!”) and stuck my tongue in it until something shiny distracted everyone and they forgot about me. Yet somehow, we emptied the hat. God, green jello is disgusting. With vodka, it’s ten times as disgusting.
We tired of the scene at Parasol’s and stumbled back to Jeff and Jackson’s. It was dark now, and every other house was having a party on the porch. Apparently we picked up another case of beer along the way, but we stopped at so many houses to talk to people that Jeff ended up leaving it on the sidewalk somewhere. We drank all the rest of the Abita Strawberrys and then they sent Rusty, who presumably was sober enough to drive, and me, out for more beer.
The first thing he did was get his gun out of the glove compartment and put it in the door pocket next to him. We drove all over the neighborhood looking for our beer—I know; right? Did not find it—and ended up at Breaux Mart (closed), Walgreen’s I (no beer); Walgreen’s II (no beer; took us a minute to figure out Walgreen’s does not carry alcohol) and finally drove to a WalMart. Once case of Miller Lite, one tube of Nivea’s fantastic girly lip balm that I made him buy because he was complaining about dry lips—and I never heard the end of how I made him get a lipstick—and an hour later, we were back, to much complaining, while everyone was eating up the leftover quiche and fruit.
We sat on the porch for an eternity—neighbors coming by, talking about how the floats should throw a rabbit, the best way to kill, cut up and prepare a rabbit, what goes in a brisket stew, and other food-related stuff, as well as the neighborhood, the neighbors’ doggies and various drunken, late-night minutiae that you can’t remember a word of the next day but that passes so much time. Eventually, Rusty went inside and then emerged with a pot of cabbage braised up with beer and the party sausage.
Lycia called a cab, then called another one, then I called a cab, and it got on toward 12:30 before we realized no cab was coming. I tried to get her to walk to the Balcony and grab one of the cabs surely waiting for departing revelers, but she was drunk and obstreperous, and Jackson and Jeff offered to let us stay there. It is a big house, but no way was I sleeping Uptown. It would ruin my rep for parochialism. Finally, I got her off the porch and we walked to Magazine, then to Pyrtania, I think, and finally got someone to take us back downtown. I sighed with relief as we crossed Canal. Uptown is very nice, cute houses, friendly neighborhood, all that, but I just don’t belong there. Lycia managed not to barf in the cab, and wanted to eat.
I bought her breakfast—she ordered another beer!—and got back to my place, where we called yet another cab, although I was pretty sure she’d have to spend the night. But he showed up while we sat on the steps of the Bordello Room, probably talking too loudly for the girls sleeping inside, and I bundled her in, washed my face, brushed my teeth, filled every glass in the house (two) with water, took two aspirin and went to bed.
I had hives all over my left forearm and my eyelids were swollen from keeping in my contacts for too long. And that’s a St. Patrick’s Parade day in New Orleans. Now you know.
