After a 9 year absence, I returned to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. More than anything else, there was a sense that not much had changed. The southern hospitality was still there, the overall jovial spirit was still there, even the playlist at Razzoo's bar was the same. And the beads. The massive amount of beads in every shape and size imaginable. Watching people do anything for these very cheap balls of plastic on a string will always be the most hilarious concept to me. And when you're in the thick of it, with thousands of screaming, laughing, and most importantly, accepting people around you, it all makes perfect sense. As my friend Jeremy put it, you feel "at home and on a different planet."
It's the same, but yet something's a bit off.
For this trip to the Big Easy, I was the experienced veteran showing around the newcomers. I almost felt like a local showing the out-of-towners how it's done in my town (even though I haven't been in nine years and I only lived there for 3 months). As I said before, New Orleans will always hold a special place in my heart. It's a place that stays with you. There is an indistinguishable, overwhelming atmosphere of pleasure over everything else that finds its way into your soul and never leaves. They handle life a little differently down there. Their response to hard luck and constant struggle is to party harder. They even named their most popular local drink after a natural disaster that frequently destroys a good portion of the city. Good food, good
music, and good spirits solve everything, and you are more than welcome to join them and find out.
"Poorly Constructed Levy System" just doesn't have the same ring to it as "Hurricane".
Here are five reasons you have to absolutely love, or be completely baffled by, the city of New Orleans, Louisiana.
The Food
When we arrived on Saturday, it was raining rather hard, and it definitely affected the number of people out on the streets. I was starting to worry that we wouldn't get a great experience on our first night. Then we stopped to get dinner at a restaurant on Bourbon Street and my worries were put to rest.
I didn't really pay attention to any of the names of the restaurants because I knew they would all be great (and I was a tad distracted to be honest). We literally chose any random little restaurant we could find as soon as anyone felt hungry. And we were always satisfied.
Catfish, hush puppies, and fries for the first meal.
Crawfish soup and biscuits with gravy made from God's semen, if God's semen is the most delicious thing you ever tasted. And why wouldn't it be?
Oysters.
OYSTERS!
If you are a fan of fattening food, or seafood, this is the place for you. Most of the food is fried and greasy, and served in large portions. Those oysters had to be exposed to gamma rays or something.
I love cajun food, and I had an excellent caesar salad with cajun chicken, as well as crawfish pasta. Late one night, I even succumbed to the street meat vendors and bought chicken on a stick. I doused it with cajun seasoning and went to town. I discovered that night that New Orleans street chicken on a stick = AMAZING.
Then there are Lucky Dogs. Anybody who's been to New Orleans knows about Lucky Dogs. I no longer eat mammals so there was no chance of me eating one; in fact, I don't think I ate one after my first trip ten years ago. You get to a point where you realize you will never eat one again if your life depended on it, and I reached that point after about 4 Lucky Dogs on my first trip. One of my fellow travelers did eat one, though, and he enjoyed it...until later that night, of course.
The majority of the food is absolutely delicious, but there's a reason Louisiana is the second fattest state in the nation.
The Music
Music. Sweet music. There's music everywhere. You walk into a random bar and a live band is playing, and they are always enjoyable. It's usually rock-and-roll or jazz, or a combination of the two, and there's a certain energy that all of the performers exude that rubs off on the listeners. The music is truly the lifeblood of the city. There's a tinge of melancholy, but it's always balanced with humor and the spirit of survival.
In addition to the live bands, there were parades with high school and college marching bands, loud music blasting through the windows and balconies, and impromptu parades with makeshift bands down the side roads. Walking down one side street led us into the middle of a random costume/dance/drum-circle/garbage-can-bongo one-block parade. It was fantastic.
There's nothing bad you can say about the music, but it's just fascinating to see how much music plays a part of everything, and how the music expresses the spirit of the place. On at least three different occasions, large groups of people started dancing in the street in what looked to be a choreographed dance sequence, except it was simply a group of people who heard music coming from a bar, saw other people dancing, and joined in, following the moves of everybody else. In the middle of a crowded street. I had never seen anything like it.
In a moment that truly reflects the positive, circular vibes happening in the NOLA, we were walking past the Dueling Piano bar, and one of my friends said, "I wish they'd play some Bob Marley. I'm surprised we haven't heard any." Twenty seconds later? They're playing No Woman, No Cry.
Circle.
The People
On any vacation, the people you go with always make a big difference in the level of enjoyment. I've been lucky with all my times in New Orleans. I've had great company every time. This trip was no different. In our hotel room at the Queen and Crescent on Camp St. (to find it, walk down Canal Street towards the smell of used cat litter...great place, though!) there were four people: myself, J-Rock, Dizzle, and Feelin' Good Frank aka Frankie Fish aka Frankie Butt-Wipes aka Frank's Red Hot aka One Hurricane and I pull My Dick Out Frank aka Forever Changing Frank aka Frank Van Winkle aka Trigga Face Frank aka Flamingo Frank aka Southern Fried Puke Frank aka Motorboatin Frank. Long story short of this inside joke: Captain Frank wanted a nickname, so we had a few suggestions...
The point is, we came equipped with a good crew, which is important wherever you go, especially in a party with hundreds of thousands of strangers. Plus, there were several other friends of ours down there that we hung out with sporadically, so that was cool.
The other thousands of people were pretty cool, too. It's actually incredible when you think about how relatively few incidents of crime occur considering the number of (drunk) people in such a small space. I guess that says something positive about human nature.
I think it's just the vibe down there, too. Everybody is just chill. Starting the day with a beignet and a Hurricane helps, but Southern hospitality really exists. The locals are, for the most part, the friendliest people you'll ever meet. They move a little slow and talk a little funny, but they will make you feel like family.
Now, don't get me wrong, with that many people, and that much alcohol, it's bound to get a little testy. When you are literally shoulder to shoulder, chest to back, trying to walk down the street with a drink in your hand and not lose your friends at the same time, you get the urge to shove everybody by the face so they'll just move already. You've been walking all day and just want to take a piss, but there's a line 30 deep and the port-a-potty is overflowing with some kind of thick liquid that's going to make you vomit just thinking about what it could be, so you're running out of patience.
And then there are the Jesus freaks. All due respect to my Christian brother and Sisters (I was one of you once!) but nobody wants to hear that shit on Bourbon Street. And if you think I'm being harsh, imagine getting harassed every day by dozens of naive college students, telling you to change your life. They're not even the worst of it. The worst are the people holding on to each others' shoulders and forming long lines down Bourbon, holding crosses and signs with phrases like, "Homo Sex Is Sin". It's all part of the absurdity,though. All aspects of life are represented. And it does give me a tingle of enjoyment when the Jesus freaks walk through the gay district and everybody boos and throws beads at them, yet nobody gets truly violent.
Yeah, it can get a little nasty. But for the most part, everybody keeps their cool. Besides, it's the tourists who are the assholes. During other times of the year, it's not nearly as overrun by drunk douchebags.
In another scene that reflects the spirit of New Orleans, me and J-Rock were down by the river, taking a break from the insanity on Bourbon. A young lady in purple spandex pants, a yellow and black tank-top, and what looked like ballet slippers, approached us and started chatting. She was very friendly, sitting on the rocks looking out at the river. She was from Atlanta and visiting for a few days. When the conversation turned to music, we asked what she liked and she said, "Oh, I don't know, everything? I'm not really sure. I'm on acid." And that little bombshell was not one bit out of the ordinary. It was just something that you came to expect after a few days in the Big Easy.
Hi, Sam!
The Beads
There are necks and torsos in there somewhere.
Some people (who have never been to Mardi Gras) wonder why people go so crazy over beads. They are just cheap plastic necklaces that usually end up staining your clothes and skin. They are an environmental catastrophe, and they make unsuspecting walkers-by slip and fall on the disgusting, beer-and-piss soaked streets, scuffing up their knees and embarrassing them in front of a group of young ladies ready to expose themselves. Goddamn beads!
But man, those beads are better than cash money down there. It's like any financial system; certain objects are valued higher than others, and the value is not intrinsic, it comes from the public's perception and demand of the object. And the public demands big, shiny, unique beads.
Talking, dancing pigs get mad love, for example. Boas are also a hot commodity for the ladies.
Beads fly down from the balconies, fly up from the streets, fly over from the sidewalks...there is no escaping the wrath of the beads. There are always a few balconies that switch it up a bit, too. One balcony threw superballs down to the street, dozens at a time. Cups and glow-stick necklaces were popular, but possibly my personal favorite (besides the time I got the pig) was the guy on a side street off Bourbon throwing cheese balls down from the balcony. It was the perfect hit at that moment and it was just really funny watching people catch flying cheese balls in their mouths in the middle of the street.
The first night we were there, people were very generous with their beads. As a group of four guys, we got some really good beads without doing anything. It was surprising, but then I realized it was the first night for a lot of other people, too. They didn't truly understand the value of their beads. When it got to Fat Tuesday, the four of us didn't stand a chance of getting beads bigger than bb's, and our best beads only went to the most attractive, or the most daring, or the most massive, or the most unique sets of chest-puppies.
Some people who've never been there might judge others for flashing or doing some other silly act to get beads, but that's because you need to be immersed in the culture to understand it. There is no judging down there, there is no shame; flashing is such a natural occurrence that you are the oddball if you don't flash (remember that, ladies).
The Scenery
No, I'm not referring to countless bare breasts...well, ok, I am referring to countless bare breasts, but I'm also talking about the actual scenery: the buildings, the river, the parades, the costumes, the body paint, the artists, the musicians.
The talented street performers.
The awesome costumes.
The AWESOME costumes.
The Mississippi River.
The street meat trailers. Me.
Every aspect of the city captures the feeling of a population that overcomes constant tragedy with good nature and humor.
Now, this is just my perspective of New Orleans during Mardi Gras. But in my experience (which only extends to three months) it applies to the city throughout the year as well. I love the place, in spite of, or because of, all its faults. The city does what I want to do: enjoy life to the fullest in the face of inevitable tragedy and death.
It's not an easy thing to do, but with enough practice (and enough beads and alcohol-based beverages) anything is possible.
Now that I have broken the news about my upcoming trip to Africa, and after watching the New Orleans Saints offensively dominate the Detroit Lions in the NFC Wildcard playoff game, I figured it would be a good time to introduce the subject of my upcoming New Orleans trip to my blog followers. For four days, including Fat Tuesday, I will be enjoying the Big Easy with several of my good friends. This will be my third time traveling to NOLA. The first time, I went for the exact same amount of time (Saturday through Wednesday morning) and the second time, I went for three months. Although it's hard to say definitively, considering it is the only city outside of CT that I've lived in, New Orleans has become my favorite city in the US. I love the sports teams, even though the Hornets are poorly run and got rid of one of my favorite players ever, CP3. I love the food, even though it is the reason that the life expectancy rate in New Orleans is considerably lower than the rest of the US. I love the music, even though I can't name any of the artists that play there. The weather is perfect during the time I'll be there, although not too fun in the summer. And I simply love the people and the culture; I can really appreciate a population that moves slowly and avoids doing anything productive. They have that perennial underdog attitude and spirit; they have survived so many hardships with a good nature that it's impossible not to root for the city to succeed. What other city responds to one of the worst (man-made) natural disasters by saying, "Fuck it. We ain't cancelling our damn party"? There's just so much to love.
I will be there for Mardi Gras again, but even during the rest of the year, there is a festive, jovial atmosphere (I'm talking about the tourist areas, not the poor areas, obviously...not a lot of smiles and bright beads in the 'Nolia projects). New Orleans is the place everyone goes to let loose, to shrug off all the social restraints and truly enjoy themselves with no inhibition. Now, that approach doesn't really work well when you're trying to run a city, but it sure is fun as a visitor. Even the police officers break free of the usual expectations of "upholders of the law" and do whatever the hell they want. It's absolute chaos...and I love it.
I haven't been since Katrina, so I'll be interested to see if there's any difference. However, I'll be in the French Quarter the whole time, with my mind (and eyes, and camera) on other, more bouncy, things, so I don't know if I'll get a good sense of the daily operations of the city. This will not be an educational trip, unless you consider comparing the size, shape, smoothness, firmness, jiggle-ocity, and length of exposure time of the female Mardi Gras-goer's chest-pillows "educational". So, yeah, I guess it is an educational trip.
Learning is fun!
I will not be starting a separate blog for this trip, as I believe the style, tone, and language of this blog fit perfectly with that of a trip to Mardi Gras with my boys. Of course, in order to document this trip, it means I will have to remain somewhat cognizant, at least long enough to write a few blog entries, or at the very least, take some notes for blog entries. Or, I can just watch all the video footage afterwards and make something up to fill in the blanks. Whatever happens, I can't wait.
This. This will happen.
Mardi Gras is meant to be a release, a Dionysian, id-fueled celebration leading up to Ash Wednesday when we repent for all our sins. Now, I've forgone the tenets and beliefs of Catholicism some time ago, but I appreciate symbolism, and the symbolism of this trip is spectacular. As I get older, I'm supposed to accept more responsibilities and overcome my youthful indiscretions. I don't know if I'm ready for all that, but I know that opportunities like this one will arise less and less the more days I spend on this planet. And the older I get, the less I need to party for 4 days straight, let alone 3 months straight. But on this trip, I will let it all out, and then reflect upon my actions (and my life in general) when the trip is done. Not because of Ash Wednesday, but I don't deny it's influence on my self-reflection. Then, when I return, I will prepare for a more noble adventure in Africa, and maybe even a more noble journey through life itself. Not that I'm never going to party again (and party hard for that matter); in fact, partying--and relaxing--are an important part of living a happy, successful life. But there needs to be a balance between partying and living responsibly, and as you get older, the balance (should) tip towards the side of responsibility and positive, productive actions.
Responsibility and productivity, as displayed here by Anderson Cooper and Kelly Ripa.
I am always looking to improve myself, and possibly the world around me, and I think both of my upcoming trips will help me on my road to self-improvement, if not quite global improvement. Human beings are complex, with characteristics that are often contradictory, and I think people would be better off if they accepted the contradictions within themselves. I feel that I have many different aspects of my identity (Professor and Thuggy being only two) and I have become a happier/better person by embracing and expressing the different parts of my identity. I love partying and living for myself, but I also enjoy working to help others. There's nothing wrong with doing both, as long as you find the right balance. I think I've balanced the two pretty well throughout my life, and I look forward to the challenge of maintaining the proper balance from now until the day of my jazz funeral procession.
In honor of last night's GOP Iowa Caucus, I feel it necessary to commend the come from behind almost-victory of Rick Santorum. Santorum was all over that caucus, ending up number 2 behind Mitt Romney by a smudge.
If you are unaware of Santorum, you should google his name. Then check out the blog "Spreading Santorum" so we can share Santorum with everybody across the country and really help people understand what Santorum is all about.
Also check out "Savage Love" with Dan Savage because he's the man.
If you’re anything like me, you grew up spending
New Year’s Eve watching Dick Clark counting down the famous ball drop in Times Square.
And, if you’re anything like me, you’ve
spent the past few New Year’s avoiding any tv countdown whatsoever, just
so you don’t accidentally glance upon Dick's sagging face as you slam your 32nd jello shot.
Now I’m not insensitive. I’m not here to
disparage stroke victims. I feel for anybody who’s suffered a stroke and any long-lasting
effects. Having a stroke is one of my biggest fears in life. I hope one day science and medicine may be able to do much more to
prevent and treat strokes. Maybe you can even help.
But I’m not here to philanthropize, either
(I’m sending that one to Merriam-Webster for approval). I’m just here to talk
about what everybody is seemingly ignoring: there is an 82-year-old stroke
victim on national television hosting the biggest party of the year.
Not everybody is ignoring it. Some
people blame the network for dragging him out year after year like a
half-melted marionette. Some say that the network is banking off his name and
his legend forcing this poor guy out there year after year. Those people say
that the network should let him go and live his life in solitude and dignity.
They say it’s a shame to see this legend as a weak, frail, feeble old man.
Others say that it’s Clark’s own ego
that has kept him coming back to rock in the New Year. They say it’s his name
on the show and he isn’t ready to give up the spotlight. He is hanging on to
the last shred of fame until it is torn out of his cold, weak, old hands. They say his age and the stroke have made him even more stubborn in his refusal to step down. They say they should let some new, young host take over. They even say it's a bummer to see him during their New Year's parties.
I admit, the year he came back after the stroke, it was tough to watch him slur through the countdown. At 25 years old, I wanted to party care-free and enjoy my own perceived immortality.
But now I'm over 30. A little more flab around the belly, a little less hair on the head. He's still a bit hard to watch, but now I know that Dick Clark is a hero.
I say we need him up there during the
biggest party of the night. Nowadays, our sick and elderly are tucked away in assisted living facilities and nice, clean hospitals so us younger folk don't have to think about our impending fate. We watch movies and shows where elderly characters are played by young people in make-up because nobody wants to see an actual old person. Dick Clark is a much-needed dose of reality, during a very surreal event. As we celebrate one more full revolution around the sun by watching a giant silver ball slowly move downward 77 feet, Dick Clark is a constant reminder of the fleeting nature of our existence. Life can
be gone, or forever changed, in an instant, oftentimes due to circumstances
beyond our control. New Year's should be a time to reflect on our journey through life thus far, and Dick Clark reminds us to enjoy that journey while it lasts, and to hang on tight until the very last drop of life drains from our wrinkled, shriveled bodies.
We need to party, and Dick Clark needs to party with us.
Personally, I hope Dick’s up there
for years to come.
I’m not one for end of the world
prophecies, but I’ve seen some things in the past few weeks that have shaken my
faith in the human race's ability to endure for years to come. Watch if you dare:
Now, there's nothing inherently offensive in this video. White people have been appropriating
black culture and music for a long time. Mainstream America loves black music, they
just want to hear it coming from a nice, white face. Pat Boone, Elvis Presley, and Eminem made thriving careers and created enduring legacies by
ripping off black musicians. And the term "wigger" has been around for a while,
too, so again, this is nothing new. Now, I believe that the term wigger is
offensive to both white and black people, and I disagree with the overall
implication that a person can “act” a certain color; however, people who can truly
be described as wiggers are really basing their “behavior” on certain stereotypes
that they believe define black culture, and if put in certain situations, these wiggers would act differently. But what you will see in the following videos is
something so far past all that has come before, I cannot stop thinking about
them and watching them.
Nattassia “Kreayshawn” Zolot, of the, I kid you not, White Girl Mob, hails from Oakland, CA. She had a major hit
with, “Gucci Gucci.” The song overall is objectively awful, but it is
undeniably catchy, and the beat is actually decent. And almost in spite of herself,
she is kinda cute. To see how bad her rapping can be, here’s a “freestyle”:
Yeah. Ok, so what’s happening here? She
clearly can’t rap. So how did she get on? Well, with a mother in a punk band,
she had an early introduction to music. She went to film school, filmed a few
videos for little pay for some local rappers, put out a mixtape, then decided
to really make that paper by simply referencing (and then dissing) a bunch of
popular fashion brands and wearing some wild, tacky outfits in her video. “Gucci,
Gucci” got 3 million hits in 3 weeks! The White Girl Mob (honestly!) was on to
something here, and Kreayshawn was getting offered record deals and touring gigs. She even took the route of similar white musicians who got rich
off of black artists: For “Gucci, Gucci” she hired a black ghostwriter and
never payed him! Well, this is America, so that worked, and people wanted more.
And they got it. Please. Watch. This. Entire. Video.
That’s Kreayshawn’s cousin, Vanessa “V-Nasty”
Reece. Yes she is white. And yes she said the line, “Have a nigga disappear…”. Now,
V-Nasty, and the White Girl Mob, have received much deserved criticism for
their use of the n-word and for what some call their complete disregard for,
and appropriation of, black music and culture. But V-Nasty vehemently defends
her use of the word, claiming, “Ya’ll niggas ain’t live how I live, ya’ll ain’t
been through what I been through,” and that ended the discussion. How
can you argue with that? No seriously, how do you argue with a mentally-disabled,
embalming-fluid addict? Here’s another verse(?) where she takes aim at “Barbie hoes”
like Nikki Minaj:
I would never, ever defend Nikki Minaj,
but she is Jay-Z compared to this tripped-out-troll. Not to mention, V-Nasty's girl Kreayshawn is clearly aping Nikki Minaj's entire style. And then there’s the
constant boasts of being “real” and the prolific use of the n-word. I’m not
going to get into an entire debate about the appropriate use of the word, if
there is an appropriate use of the word. However, I listen to a lot of hip-hop
and it’s simply common-place, and there’s always the situation of wanting to
repeat lyrics, but what do you do when that word comes on? It’s the classic
white-guy-as-hip-hop-fan-dilemma. I don’t really stress it because I think it’s
all about the intent of the word; all my friends like hip-hop, and if the word is used, our intent is nothing negative. All that being said, watching V-Nasty say
it so naturally just feels wrong. And I don’t mean like when Tarantino uses it
in Pulp Fiction, where he wants you to feel uncomfortable. This feels wrong for
entirely other reasons. She is just so perfectly at ease saying it. And when
she defends herself, she gives every lame nature-vs-nurture excuse, and acts
as if anybody who is offended just isn’t “real” enough to understand. Then there’s
the fact that she’s with a bunch of black dudes. So are her boasts of being “too
real for ya’ll” actually true? Or are these guys so desperate for a white bajingo and high off leak that they put up with this retarded act and relinquish any
sense of dignity?
Now, to be fair, not all people are
putting up with this. This dude absolutely slays the White Girl Mob, and
especially V-Nasty, but he puts black people on blast, too. It’s worth hearing
the whole thing. Other rappers have also come out against these she-goblins,
but the fact remains that they are still popular enough to warrant record
deals and concerts.
So who is listening to this stuff? Well,
apparently, the White Girl Mob draws mobs…of…white girls. Which is cool. Nikki
Minaj has mostly white, teenage, female fans. DMX was a God to every white frat boy when he came out. Hip-hop reached mainstream a
long time ago. And pop music has always been bad (to everyone besides the millions
of white girls who buy it). I wouldn’t even be upset if it was just Kreayshawn
making music.White people don't need to be stealing black names now, too,
but I would just shrug her off as an amusing oddity. But then the
devil-monchichi V-Nasty arrives and poses entirely other questions about
mainstream America. How did we get here? I watch V-Nasty and know she is offensive, but what about
the young white girl in Montana who sees the video? Does she think this is acceptable? V-Nasty seems awfully comfortable saying it, and the black guys with her don’t
seem to mind. And if you are the slightest bit mentally incapacitated, or just
never met a black person in your life, her defense may make some sense. And I’m
not for censorship in the slightest. Not government censorship anyway. I think
there needs to be some self-censorship at times, though. And if not, then there
should be some community censorship, meaning, if this bitch doesn’t shut
herself up, her community should do it for her (just a beat-down, nothing extreme). The problem is that these white "mob" girls are clearly banking off their caucasian nature and using racial undertones to gain popularity/notoriety (it's not even subtle, it's right in the name!). They are appealing to the masses with their cute get-ups and blonde hair, and appealing to the hip-hop crowd by claiming to be "real", which apparently means ignorant, criminal, and constantly high. It is so obviously an act to anybody over 25 years old...but plenty of other people buy into this act.
As Hater Azzi said in the link above, we
can’t just be mad at V-Nasty, though. This is the culture we have become. And I'm not blaming hip-hop by any means. In American culture overall, there is a complete disregard for our history as
a country and as a people. In fact, many take ignorance of the past as a sign of true patriotism and an independent spirit. White people, how did you get to this point? And black people, how did you let these bitches survive
for this long?
Maybe nobody cares about the n-word anymore. Maybe that’s
a good thing? Maybe we’ve finally overcome our history of bigotry and hate. Maybe the only thing we should be offended by when we watch these videos is the horrible, horrible music they pass off as hip-hop. Maybe we've reached an era of "post-racism" where these words don't contain much meaning.
Unfortunately, I lean towards the other side. The side where that old cliche, "if you forget about the past, you are doomed to
repeat it" rings true now more than ever, and where words hold more power than actual WMDs. Hell, words make wars happen, WMDs are just an excuse. Hopefully, more people will call out the bullshit when they see it, instead of just shrugging and accepting it as part of the game. Hopefully, people are watching these videos to laugh or stare in horror, and not to enjoy, or even worse, emulate.
Either way, I’m just kinda disappointed in the entire human race.
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