Mardi Gras for the Party Brah

         We had finally reached downtown New Orleans after 15 hours in the car. It was now time to focus on our next problem. Where we were going to stay during the busiest time of the year in New Orleans. We had accepted the fact that any form of traditional vacation housing such as a hotel or hostel was completely out of the question. After checking the rates at some of the local parking garages near the Superdome we found an open parking spot at the intersection of Burgundy and Touro, only 2 blocks away from Bourbon Street. We were surrounded by streets that were illegal to park on and garages that were charging $35 a day. It may have been the best parking spot in the city. My only concern was that all of my possessions, which at this point could fit in half of a backseat of a Camry, would need to be left in the car while we were out. The sunlight had just begun peaking over the roofs of the French Quarter when we decided to get some rest before the festivities began.
         In an attempt to make more room for my legs while I slept, I pushed my comforter up towards the windshield. This is when we had a major breakthrough. We could turn our car into a bad ass fort to live out of for the next few days. We tucked the comforter behind the rear view mirror and clamped it under the visors. There was still the problem of the side windows letting in light so we took off our pillow cases and rolled the window up around the edges so they could hang from the inside. In the back seat we covered the windows with my sleeping pad, the top of a box, and a dress shirt. With the dark linens facing outwards, our car just looked like it had tinted windows and no one would ever think there were two drifters sleeping inside. By the time the transformation was complete, our Mardi Gras fort made up of blankets, a sleeping pad, and a Camry with 223,000 miles on it, felt more secure than the Alamo.

Chillin in the Camry fort after a long day

          I woke up later that day to a pounding on my window. I pulled the pillow case aside to see Dan's cheerful drunk face and a few groups of people walking down our street. It was the first night sleeping in the car and I had slept like a baby sedated with elephant tranquilizers. It was the energy of Mardi Gras and none of my own power that allowed me to drag myself out of the car and onto my feet. I dug through my belongings in the back until I came across the captain's hat that was taken from the ship the Spirit of Rochester when my friends and I broke onto the boat when we were 16 to raid the bar. Next, I pulled out my suit coat that was still dirty and wrinkled from wearing it on New Years in New York City. I poured myself a cocktail, loaded up the backpack with the rest of the booze, and my Mardi Gras outfit was ready to go.

Dan the Man on the Mississippi with a sombrero

         This is the point where the story telling would be done better with a helmet cam than a blog. Writing about Mardi Gras to someone who's never been is like explaining sex to a virgin: you won't know what you're doing, you'll never want your mother to know what you did, and you'll feel like you've lost your innocence when its over.... and there's boobies. The next couple of days of my life consist of walking around New Orleans' French Quarter in a drunken, joyous, blur. There are countless ridiculous occurrences that won't make it to this blog, but here's a few highlights.
        After coming inches away from getting my skull stomped by police horse in the riots at UNH after the Red Sox won the World Series in 2007, I've had a bit of a fear of police horses. My drunk courage helped me overcome this fear, but the tomfoolery of a drunken Dave Newell made the fear resurface for what I expect to be the rest of my life. I was making my way down Bourbon Street when I thought it would be funny to get a picture with a police horse with my captain's hat on its head. Unfortunately, the officer riding the horse didn't share my enthusiasm for horses wearing silly hats. As soon as he noticed a wasted guy covered in beads trying to put a captain's hat on his horse friend, he immediately yelled "GET HIM!" And got me he did. The horse immediately charged me, but due to my past experience at the UNH riots I knew the most important thing to do was to stay on my feet. I ran as fast as I could, which proved to be difficult to do on Fat Tuesday in the middle of Bourbon Street in crowds of people. I pushed through my fellow revelers and tried to use my supreme agility to outmaneuver the horse as I felt his hooves giving my shoes flat tires and his chest on my back.  I had really expected the police officer to lay off after the first couple times he ran me down with the horse, but he was still having his fun while he repeatedly yelled "GET HIM!" There really wasn't much Dan could do to help me at this point, so he did what any good friend would do. Told everyone to look at the guy being chased by the horse while rolling on the ground laughing. I felt like a calf getting chased around a rodeo in front of thousands of cheering red necks.  I ran in circles while failing to evade the horse until I was grabbed by the strong, safe, arms of a footed police officer.  Considering I was scared the horse was going to stomp me until Bourbon Street ran red with my blood mixed with spilled booze like a Dave flavored bloody mary, I had never been more happy to be aggressively grabbed by a police officer, or any man for that matter. I apologized profusely with the realization that I was no more than a semi functioning drunken retard that had just tried to put a hat on a police horse. They told me to get off Bourbon Street and that I would be arrested if I returned. It takes more than that for me to throw in the towel on Mardi Gras. I took a lap around the block and got back to my previous shenanigans.

Happy because I just confronted my fear of police horses... right before I put the hat on its head

        On our last night in New Orleans Dan went back to the car because he was "Mardi Gras"ed out and we needed to get up early to figure out how we were going to jump our car since our battery was now dead. I was still in all of my drunken glory and hadn't yet had my fill of New Orleans, so we split up. I emptied what was left of my 1 liter of rum and coke into my gullet and met a couple of young ladies who brought me to a strip club to continue drinking. Being in a Bourbon Street strip club during Mardi Gras is like... well I don't know, but its fucking pointless. I was getting bored of the strippers and my new friends when Dan texted me and told me he couldn't bare to sit in a car when Mardi Gras was in full tilt. We agreed on an intersection to meet, I said goodbye to the ladies, and I ventured out. When Dan found me I was eating a bag of rolls I didn't buy in one hand and our trusty party spear that a flight attendant we had hung out with the night before gave us in the other. I was leaning against a steel police barricade when I noticed him. As soon as I saw him I tried to push off the barricade to walk over to him. Instead, I pushed the barricade to the ground as I tumbled to the street with it. The crash of the barricade was loud enough to get Dan's attention. We both laughed and agreed that it was a very good thing he came back out. I picked up the party spear, brushed off my roll, and walked into a nearby bar. A nice couple handed me my wallet that I dropped on the ground right inside of the bar. To show some appreciation I bought us a round of SoCo shots that I really didn't need. Then the DJ made a humongous mistake. He put on "Let the Bodies Hit the Floor" by Drowning Pool in front of a shitfaced Dave Newell carrying a party spear. Needless to say, things took a turn for the worse. Mardi Gras was coming to a close and I was ready to explode with all of my remaining party energy. I stomped around the dance floor slamming my spear on the ground and shouting as a 15 foot radius cleared around me. It wasn't long before I was asked to leave.

Party spear compliments of Xtina

      The walk back to the car was equally as reckless. I picked up the habit of asking every girl I made eye contact with if we just had a moment. It turned out to be a great conversation starter. I was kissing one lady's hand when I saw her husband come up behind her. He didn't seem mad but I told him "Sorry for kissing your wife, sir." He must have misunderstood what I said because a big smile came across his face as he said "Sure you can kiss my wife! Go ahead and make out with her!" Feeling compelled by the gentleman's kindness and the hilarity of the situation, I acquiesced. Continuing down Bourbon Street towards the car I kept getting into pictures with random groups of people that complimented me on my captain's hat, which was now decorated with Mardi Gras beads wrapped around it and dangling off. All of the photos were in absolutely preposterous poses. I can't help but laugh that there's probably a picture on someone's facebook of a voluptuous black girl getting her butt bitten by a random drunken captain.
         We made it back to the car and we were pleased to discover that we had made it through Mardi Gras without getting our car full of our belongings messed with. We made some tune ups to the fort and basked in the glory of what had been an incredible Fat Tuesday. I had survived horses, husbands, and head banging hard rock. I needed a break. Instead, it was on to the Spring Break Capital of the World the next day once we jumped our car...

"Who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed?” - Hunter S. Thompson