Mardi Gras down in New Orleans

I fall asleep humming songs about goin' down to the Mardi Gras, I wake up singing about the Mardi Gras Indians, thump my thigh as I walk to the tune of:

Talkin' 'bout
Hey now (hey now)
Hey now (hey now)
Iko iko an nay (whoah-oh)
Jockomo feena ah na nay
Jockomo feena nay

I am exhausted after two straight weeks of letting the good times roll in a way that only Fat Tuesday in the Big Easy inspires. The town of New Orleans turns into a bright, brash, loud, happy, dancing, parading, festive gumbo of tradition and religion and irreverence and debauchery and smiling children each year at Mardi Gras. It is like nowhere else on Earth. It is nothing like non-participants would imagine. It is more than one could dream.

Beads of every color and shape linger in every gutter and at every corner for miles. Marching bands from around the country, with gold epaulets bouncing proudly on crisp costumes, boom and wail down the street. Frat boys plant couches and do keg stands in the wide median - or, as they say here, neutral ground - on St. Charles Avenue. Stout tractor drivers pull the floats through the streets wearing overalls and work boots. Debutantes in lace and diamonds wave from the back of convertibles, and each parade's king reigns in velvet and tails from high above his float. Harry Connick Jr. beams from atop the Orpheus float, surveying the crowds. Families stake their spaces along the route days in advance, strategically placing ladders at the curb to give the little tykes a better view. Mardi Gras Indians prance and beat drums, their bright plumage shivering in the wind. Everyone shouts to the riders on the floats, "Throw me something, mister!" in hopes of catching unique beads or a prized coconut or stuffed animal. High school dance troops and cheerleaders gyrate and stomp on the cement. Revelers lie sleeping on lawns midday or in parking lots early in the morning. Marines march in lockstep, with their bayonets sparkling and the crowds cheering. Satirical groups lampoon FEMA and the governor and the mayor with signs and costumes and faux rituals. Food carts sell funnel cakes and meat on a stick. The Zulu krewe paint their black faces black and cartoonishly mimic African jungle savages. Drooping oaks and willows graze the tops of the floats as their lights flash in the warm evening.

Parade after parade, float after float, party after party, band after band, beads and beads and more beads.

I lose my voice. My camera dies. My feet are killing me. I lose my stamina Saturday, then gain it Sunday, then lose it again Monday, and somehow make it to Tuesday after non-stop walking and eating and drinking and standing on tiptoes and people watching and going to clubs and untangling beads and gaping at the beautiful craftsmanship of the floats and spending money and catching what little sleep I can.

It is awesome.