What A Ride!

Well, dear readers, I’m back, rested, and ready (mostly) to practice some architecture. But I did promise you a post on the day’s events last Friday.

The Mardi Gras Krewe I belong to os one of the older traditional Mardi Gras Krewes, which parades at night in New Orleans proper. We do things the “old fashioned” way – with real flambeaux carriers, Krewe officers on horseback in full, traditional costume (I am one of those), and with ceremonial toasts at Gallier Hall and at the reviewing stands for the King and his Court. For a Krewe, the parade is actually just one of a lot of other parties and celebrations that start back before Christmas.

During Mardi Gras proper our Krewe festivities usually begin with the "den party", and then with a formal dinner last Wednesday night. Our ball / supper dance is on Thursday night, but this year I had to skip the ball due to my daughter being ill.

Friday is our big day - parade day - and for Krewe-members it begins around 11:00 in the morning when we drop off our parade gear at the hotel where we dress, and head over to the French Quarter to “enjoy the day”. For the older, more formal, members of the Krewe, that means lunch in a famous New Orleans eatery. For the rest of us, it means spending lunchtime in a rented hall over a bar on Bourbon Street, with a balcony, a buffet (which always has fried alligator), and an open bar. I think you can see why I prefer the latter party. As Bourbon Street begins to fill up with people, we show them our favor by throwing them beads:


image by Red Stick Rant

And some the crowd often return the favor by giving us a, um, “showing”. I will say no more about that, as small children and spouses may be reading. But know that a suit and tie (the Krewe tie is preferred for members) is required for either of our functions, so our behavior must be upstanding and respectable. Well, mostly upstanding and respectable, anyway.

At around 2:00 the “walking parade” begins. Just imagine a gathering of several hundred men in suits wandering through the Quarter throwing beads. A band leads off, the King follows in a carriage, and we follow the King. To be honest, the walking parade is one of my favorite events. You get to see, and talk to, folks on the street, and most are rather taken aback seeing a bunch of middle-aged men in suits tossing beads. And the crowd in the Quarter this year was very pleasant, as pleasant as I’ve ever seen. The walking parade winds it’s way back to the hotel so we can dress.

Let me digress a bit about the costumes. And remember as you read this, I am straight. My parade costume consists of a mustard colored muumuu and matching cape, both edged in faux ermine and liberally accented with rhinestones and sequins, a silver sequined hat with white ostrich feathers sticking out the top, a silver lamy mask, and white gloves. And that’s not the worst of it – for the parade we wear riding boots and breeches; for the ball we wear white majorette boots and white tights. Only in New Orleans can you call up a girl’s dance shop, ask for majorette boots and white tights in your size and have the sales clerk say, in a matter-of-fact voice, “And what Krewe do you ride with, sir?”

Now, there is no way you are going to get into that getup alone. The costume weighs probably 30 pounds and is hot as hell. So when you arrive to get dressed, you get a valet. Really. A real live Jeeves. He has been doing this for years, and can get you in your costume in minutes. Once in your costume, you look like this (the one on the right is me):


image by Red Stick Rant

Once dressed, we are bussed to the start of the parade and get mounted up on our horses. Now, I do not actually control the horse. The horse has been mildly sedated and is led around by a “walker”. So I’m not so much on a horse, as a one-man float that poops.

The horse is doped up for a good reason: a mildly stoned horse is far less likely to be scared suddenly and do something to hurt either the rider, a spectator, or the horse. Unfortunately, people will sometimes try to scare the horse or do something get the rider dumped. In the past I have had bottles thrown at me, throws tossed back at me, people grabbing or swatting the horse, or even trying to grab my throws from my saddle. Fall off your horse in all that costume onto a concrete street, and you are likely going to the hospital. (This year, for the first time, I had no incidents.)

Before we start the parade, we always have the doubloon “collectors” show up. The horse-mounted officers throw a special doubloon (ours are purple), and doubloon collectors crave them. I don’t know why, but doubloon collectors are almost always overweight, balding, and over 40. And, they are rude. This is why I do not give “collectors” anything.

Once we get started, around 6:00pm, it takes about two blocks for the horse to get used to it all. And then, it gets fun! You spend the next 120 minutes tossing doubloons and beads to crowds yelling “Throw me something, Mister!” And for me, it’s personal. When a float passes, the crown is addressing their plea to anyone on the float; but when I pass, I am alone – the spectators are yelling and waving directly at me. I tend to toss my throws randomly, but for small children and pretty ladies with a smile I will throw directly to them. It always seems to make them smile a wee bit more.

Once we are through the parade, we dismount at the hotel and then this once-a-year horseman remembers what sore is! (Personally, I think riding English is some kind of punishment invented by Satan.) We return to our valet to get uncostumed and get something to eat and drink. Because we are on horseback, and have no ability to “go” during the parade (the floats have porta-lets on board), we quit drinking and eating when the walking parade begins in the early afternoon. So by the time we get back we are starving and thirsty. This year we were treated to a buffet of po-boy sandwiches, turtle soup, and, of course, drinks.

We spend the next hour or so eating, getting dressed, getting packed, and swapping stories about the ride. We are all exhausted. But we are all counting the days until we do it again next year.