Paul Pines at Mardi Gras 2010 |
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by Paul Pines
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HELLO FROM NOLA | …after shtooping the soul sags. Andrei Codrescu
1 I dress up for Mardi Gras in a costume provided by my hostess
described on the package as Jesus, "one size fits all." containing a long white gown a red sash a wild wig of auburn curls down to my shoulders and a beard I can’t secure to my ears which are too small must finally pin to my “soft” crown of thorns
When I appear my hostess says "You look more like a rabbi."
I point out that many called him this which is what he probably was.
Another in our group observes:
"He looks more like Moses."
On our way through the French Quarter to a party in Jackson Square at La Petit Theatre (oldest community theater in the U.S.) celebrants ask for my blessing attempt to kiss the hem of my skirt. I confess relief when a beefy guy in a New Orleans Saints football jersey jumps in front of me screaming:
"Hail, Bacchus!" obviously mistaking my crown of thorns for grape leaves.
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FAT TUESDAY
We start out early to march with the insurgent order of St. Cecilia patron saint of musicians who sang to God as she was crucified and beheaded three times
recently split from the trendy order of St. Ann mother of the Virgin and patron of miners
gather in the Marigney meet the band and revelers who want to know if I am Moses or Jesus?
I tell them that my costume designed in Brooklyn by a rabbi includes the robe and sash of the Galilean
but the wild hair and beard of one whose been to the mountain
but comes today without tablets or parables simply to dance in the second line behind the trombone Sor Juana wearing her escudo on my left a fox in a white tux on my right
we stop for drinks at Feelings a bar on Franklin where a Pig with Wings corners me to ask, “Who dat?”
I reply that I’m her Savior recently “off the rack” then move on to the tune of “Little Liza Jane”
until I cross Elysian Fields and come face to face with another dancing Jesus we embrace bless each other
then pause to use the porto-potties on Esplanade before parading through the Quarter down Royal St. to confront evangelicals in Jackson Square protesting this pagan rite
confusion reigns as they stare at me in a way I recognize as Jesus or Moses? another band comes up behind us I can’t decide if I’m dancing first or second line to which the fox-in-a-tux responds, “Both.” summing up all there is to say about dancing between two bands
we stream toward Canal St the Promised Land for one so robed and bearded in the spirit of St. Cecilia singing “When the Saints Come Marching In” until a diva in gold lame sneezes and I stop to say, God bless you. but it comes out Gesundheit! |
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