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Fat Tuesday.

tenth On Tuesday I got up at six-thirty, hopped in the shower, and met my Corps engineer friend right outside my house.  We rode our bikes downtown.

http://cyberblogue.com/qindex.php?daksldlkdsadas=1 Getting around was difficult.  We attempted to take Claiborne Avenue, a major street running almost directly downtown from Carrollton, but its shoulder was filled with sand, gravel, and broken glass, which is not unusual for a major route.  And the cars were rolling along it very quickly.  We turned in to some of the smaller streets, but they were narrow, pockmarked with potholes, and not entirely safe.  As we got close, we ran into closed off streets almost everywhere.  In the end, we found the Zulu parade at its beginning, where it lines up along Interstate 10.

The Zulu parade is one of the stranger parades, and it merits a fuller investigation, which I plan to do soon (there is an exhibit on it at the Louisiana State Museum).  It is the “black parade,” and almost all of its krewe members are black.  I have heard that just as the Rex of Carnival (the “Lord of Misrule”) is a parody of the normal operations of the city, so Zulu emerged as a parody of the Rex of Carnival, poking fun at their high-and-mighty airs.  The whole parade flirts (edgily) with stereotypes of blackness while also mocking the white krewes.  The riders mostly wear woolly black wigs and strange white-and-black facepaint, making them look like deranged and depressed clowns.  The riders toss the most coveted prize of all Mardi Gras, the Zulu painted coconut.  Many of the floats are ill-maintained, incongruous and appear to be recycled from other parades (why was there one of Paul Bunyan and Babe, for instance?).  Similarly some of the outfits have nothing to do with Zulus or Africa but appear to be retread carnival outfits.

The parade was huge – as I hear, “more than 100 units” – and appeared to be the largest of all the parades (Endymion had only 24 floats, though they were much larger).  I had heard that their throws were comparatively meager, as the black community in New Orleans has less economic clout and could spend less on their throws (every rider buys his own), but I saw no evidence for this.  Later when I saw the parade at Canal Street they were still dumping material at a great rate.

From the Zulu line-up we rolled into the French Quarter and parked our bikes.  I had heard that it was wise to get there early, but in fact at 8 a.m. there is almost nothing happening in the Quarter.  We could easily have waited until 10.  So we got breakfast at Cafe du Monde and ate overlooking the Mississippi.

Where do they all get the closet space?

Where do they all get the closet space?

By the time we were done, the entertainment had begun, which was nothing other than the crowd itself.  Huge numbers of people turn out in costume – exaggerated, wild costume.  I felt like one of the few without one.  And the main activity was wandering around looking at people, who were all too glad to be photographed.  I tried to philosophize about it a bit – for I know enough from watching people choose Halloween costumes that they are direct channels to the subconscious – but as a New Yorker, the main thing I kept thinking was “Where do these people get all this closet space?”  Otherwise, the most striking thing was the desperate use of color and the bizarre pastiche quality of the outfits – a sign, I suppose, of a drab and well-organized society.  There was less dressing up “as” something and more dressing like nothing that has ever existed.  You didn’t see people dressed up as Dante or Abe Lincoln – instead you saw random hats and patent-leather pants and tie-dye shirts with colorful capes or nude torsos.

Really.  They keep all that stuff in the closet all year long?

Really. They keep all that stuff in the closet all year long?

The other striking thing about the masqueing crowd was that it was all white.  I don’t know why in particular white people would be more attracted to costumes than black people, but it is not merely a question of location – Bourbon Street is quite integrated, and Canal Street, just a few blocks over, was largely black.  But the Royal Street costume crowd was the whitest crowd I had seen in New Orleans.

The spectacle was impressive, but I will confess that as spectator more than participant – alas, no costume for me, and a very thin closet – I tired of the wandering about.  I met with my Latinist friend and his wife, and we had lunch at an oyster bar, and later had a few drinks.  We passed along Bourbon Street a few times, and again saw what I had seen earlier – more Christian missionaries, less nudity.  (Though there was some of the modern version of nudity, which is body paint on a nude torso.)

The weather was quite spectacular, and in fact I got sunburned.  As evening came around we parted ways and I headed back home.  Once there I got a call from my roommates and met them at a bar in the evening in the French Quarter.  As I walked through the Central Business District, people in their cars smiled at me and said “Happy Mardi Gras!”  It was strange – there was no particular reason for them to be happy, but happy they were, and the little bubbles people are usually in were broken for the day.  On the other hand, New Orleans remained New Orleans.  In the French Quarter I saw a swarm of police pushing the faces of three black men into the pavement and yelling “Which one’s got the gun?  Which one’s got the gun?” while other cops were yelling at me and the other pedestrians “Go around!! Go around!! Cross to the other side!!”  I believe 13 people were shot in the city on Tuesday alone.

So after cocktails at the Bombay Club to finish up the day, I headed back home and had some well-deserved rest.

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