Mardi Gras is Here Motherf*ckers! And You Can't Not Do Mardi Gras!

Mardi Gras rode in on a giant golden cock a la Krewe du Vieux Saturday night. If you were there, depending on your palate, the golden phallus was sweet, bitter, bitter-sweet or sweet-bitter; but there was no denying what it was as it rolled down Royal Street—long, proud, veiny, illuminate—a symbol of fertility, strength, mistakes to come, and more importantly perhaps, of the sheer ridiculousness, bold silliness, and yes, sexiness, that makes Mardi Gras Mardi Gras and not the Macy’s Day Parade or some other family and retail store-friendly Puritanical exhibition of inhibition.

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The French Quarter Story Teller

Yesterday was the first sunny day in weeks. I sat on my pedicab on the corner of Royal and St. Peters, listening and watching Doreen Ketchens, one of the best musicians in New Orleans, raise her clarinet to the sky with unmistakable style, like a trumpet or trombone, surrounded by couples in khaki shorts drinking coffee, Hand Grenades and daiquiris, drunks and gutter-punks sitting on the curb smoking Joes and shouting requests, dreamy-eyed kitchen workers in white-striped pants leaning on time-worn posts, and waited for a ride.

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