By Chris Lane
By Jeff Balke
By Aaron Reiss
By Angelica Leicht
By Dianna Wray
By Aaron Reiss
By Camilo Smith
By Craig Malisow
"See," says my boyfriend, "Mardi Gras is about letting go."
Full of cheer and liquid courage (thanks, Bud Light), I decide to head down. I'll miss this oasis, however surreal it may be. I mean, I'm standing behind only two women for the bathroom, while the men's room line is at least 15 strong. The facilities downstairs, meanwhile, require you to roll up your pant legs for sanitary purposes. Down to the lower echelon we go. As we meet up with some friends in the crowd, my terror alert level quickly returns to yellow. "Look at the funbags on that hosehound," a friend comments.
"Funbags? Hosehound?" I mutter confusedly (turns out he was checking out someone's rack). I'm eyeing the police stretched across the Strand ahead of the Krewe of Momus parade. Their SWAT gear makes it clear that they're ready to dispatch revelers by any means necessary. So we head back to the VIP haven and its free pizza. I feel briefly guilty, until I realize these fools downstairs paid to come.
Our progress is halted when a drunken man puts his arm around me, looks right in my eyes and says, "I bet you don't think you're pretty, but you suuure are." Help!
"I would have smashed his face in," my boyfriend later explains valiantly, "but I was getting another beer."
Laissez les bons temps rouler, indeed.