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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.
2
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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