Mardi Gross

Well, I've returned from Mardi Gras in New Orleans. I went alone, didn't take the little woman; she had to work the graveyard shift at the doily factory here in town.

Things didn't go too well. The taxi I took from the N.O. airport to downtown encountered a flat tire on the freeway. When we finally arrived at the station on Loyola Ave and I quit the cab, I discovered that one of my two wallets had fallen into its back seat---goodbye, wallet. I managed by city bus to make it to St Charles Ave. It was crowded with families watching the parade. The large branch of the sidewalk tree under which I was standing and upon which a couple of kids were perched cracked, sending the kids onto my back---damn. I left that, and made my way to the downtown Canal St area. Luckily the Zulu parade was in progress; unluckily, the spear and shield of one of the marchers nabbed and cut my shoulder as he walked right next to me. I walked, or, I think, was carried by the wave of the crowd, into the French Quarter. I immediately was accosted on Bourbon St by some older hootchie-kootchie woman. Pushed into a group of drinking fellow celebrators, I had their cups of beer splatter across my shirt. Then a few rings of beads strongly thrown from an apartment balcony hit the side of my head cutting above my eye. Before long I was accosted by some older hootchie-kootchie man. As I backed away my shoes stepped into the street gutter full of junk and crap.

Filthy, stinking, and already worn out, I fought my way to the Cafe' du Monde at Jackson Square in an attempt to find food and respite. No such luck---the crowds were overwhelming. Only one thing left to do, only one place left to go: St Louis Cathedral. As I barely was able to enter its door, the people packed inside gave me no room to sit or rest. Up the stairs I climbed and into the choir loft. But the things I saw there I can't mention. I saw only one door to some room or closet in the loft, and entered it. It introduced me to a high stairway with small steps, so I took it. And there I terminated. in the belfry. My shirt have torn off, my head and face bleeding, my body reeking of beer, my arthritic-dystonia body bent over from exhaustion, I gingerly made my way through the complex of bells and the shaky floor. On the edge of the belfry I suddenly found myself at an open window overlooking the square. And then I heard it: the crowd below erupted into chants of "Look, it's the hunchback! Hunchback! Hunchback! Jump, hunchback, hunchback!" I can't remember a moment in my life of more embarrassment.

And I thought being a pseudo-gargoyle was exciting enough.