Mardi Gras in Exile

If I leapt open and fearless
in front of a subway train today
I'm fairly certain the the stain
I'd leave behind
would be a festive smear
of purple green
and gold

That's the color of my blood
that or Mississippi mud
or the deep sunset gloom
of an algae-tinted bayou
where I go to find myself

But nothing finds me here
there are no brass bands
or seconds lines for lost
poet girls who've gone
searching for their words

Until maybe someday
when some soulful Southern boy
comes to blow his horn
to fame and fortune
on the crowded streets
instead spends too much time
straddling a hungry third rail until he

finds himself on an empty
subway platform
blowing a sad, slow rendition
of St. James Infirmary
down a deserted tunnel
where only the lost souls
of lonely poets haunt
the too-silent dark

Burned

In a stunning feat

of structural

mis-engineering

I have burned

far more bridges 

than I have ever built

My

human relations

suffer from a

shaky foundation

and the constant

buzzzzzzzz

of too much traffic

It's a beautiful ride

across the bridge

but the other side ends

in a sudden drop

into the cold and

empty space below

I burn them because 

they're fun

but dangerous stretches

of madness

where the lonely

tend to follow

But in that brief moment

when all is set ablaze

at least they keep me warm

Time is a Ferris wheel

Time is a Ferris wheel
Everything feels like motion
but it's really just a series of
the same moments
passing again and again
with different people
beside you
Dangling
brightly lit
above a disinterested crowd
And trying desperately
to figure out how far
you can rock the car
without winding up
broken and bleeding
at the bottom
of the ride

Some Words for 2014

I’ve many times been asked, “Why did you move to New Orleans?”

I answer, “I moved here to write.”

I’m asked, “What do you write?”

And that is where I falter. I know what I used to write. Blogs, poetry, sometimes short stories.

But then I stopped.

I’ve oft penned posts and blogs in the New Year resolving to be more productive, to get back to the reason I moved to New Orleans, to get inspired and finally win that Pulitzer Prize I’ve coveted since my teens. But no amount of telling myself I have to do it has led to me actually doing it.

This week I’ve been doing some painful introspection, and I’ve come to some enlightening, albeit very harsh, self-realizations.

1.    I’m lazy. I wage a constant battle against inertia, and mostly seem to lose. When at rest, this particular object, me, will stay at rest. After moving to the Marigny last year, it was easy to fool myself into thinking that I’m not lazy because I walk a mile and a half to work each way every day through the French Quarter, in the cold, the heat, and the rain. I’ve never cabbed or driven or taken a bus to work. I have a car, but I love the walk. I love to pop in on my friends who work in the Quarter after work or on the weekends and have a drink or two with them. And there I stay. I love my friends. I love people and being social. I love being out. But once I’m there, I find it hard to convince myself that it’s time to go do something else. I’m fabulous with excuses. “No, I don’t want to go to the movies now because I’ve had three beers and then I’ll just have to pee every ten minutes throughout the movie.” Yeah, that’s me. “No, I don’t want to go to the Barataria today because I’ll lose my parking spot and it’s right in front of my house. I’ll just stay home today.” That’s me too.

So my first resolution for 2014 is to get the hell out of the French Quarter. I love it, I do, but it’s a vacuum from which I have trouble escaping. I will still pop in on my friends from time to time, but I’ll tell them to send me home after a drink or two. I’ve got shit to do. I’ve got people to see and places to be and a city to rediscover, and perhaps remember why I came here in the first place.

My second self-realization was a much harder one to come to and a much harder one to face.

2.    I’m angry. I’m angry ALL THE DAMN TIME. And most of the time I have no idea why. As a writer, I’ve always been prone to dark moods. As an oversensitive poet, I’m easily broken, though most wouldn’t assume that, as I tend to be snarky, sarcastic, and, let’s face it, amidst all this sweet Southern hospitality, a Yankee bitch. Hey, we all have our defenses and our walls. But somehow I’ve always managed to channel all that oversensitive bullshit into my writing. The problem is I’m not writing anymore. So I’m just getting angrier. And all of those real or imagined slights, no matter how big or how small, have just been festering and reproducing to give birth to the unstable ginger rage-beast that now dwells quite comfortably inside me . . . probably in the nicely sized space where my soul should be.

Some might argue that that doesn't sound like me at all. They'd be wrong. I don’t scribe all my internal diatribes to the populace on social media, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have them. Trust me . . . I do. And they’re terrifying.

So my second resolution for 2014 is to stop being a raging, insufferable c*nt. To learn to let go of the little things that don’t matter and shouldn’t continue to annoy me. To take another look at the world around me and re-evaluate my relationships with the people in that world—some of which have begun, some have ended, and some done both, several times, over the course of the past year—and how I treat them.

I had half-convinced myself that I was all out of words. That I was all out of inspiration. That I had been so long absent from the things I love that they had all dried up. But these are some words . . . the first of 2014. They’re not pretty words. They’re not poetic words. No one will call them brilliant or genius, and no one may even read them. But they’re my words. They’re words that I practically ran home from work to write down because I could feel them boiling to get out.

So I’m not going to say that I’ll write more in 2014. I’m not going to wander through a desert looking for a particular grain of sand without some plan. But I’m hoping that resolving to make a few healthy, necessary attitude adjustments will mean a happier, healthier, more productive VoodooRue in 2014.

Poetry Is a Freight Train

Poetry is 
     a freight train
that I am forever
     trying to catch

an empty boxcar
     rumbling by
whose murky corners
     are ripe 

with fugitive phrases
     waiting to be plucked 
from their
     darkest depths

I want to hobo my way
     on a transcontinental
journey between
     poetic states
     
a handkerchief
     crowded 
with my favorite words
     slung over my shoulder

Some days
     I love the chase

Breathe

I have the bends
     from being so long
beneath the surface
     of everything
and trying to come up
     too fast

I've forgotten
     how to breathe
after being so long
     at the back of the pack
always a day late
     and a rent check short

I don't remember
     what oxygen tastes like
but I'm sure it must be
    sweet

Mardi Gras 2012 Roundup, Part 3: Okeanos

On Sunday, February 19, Skinz-n-Bonez made our Uptown parade debut with the Krewe of Okeanos. Being a rather new krewe, we were thrilled to have been asked to participate.

Okeanos was scheduled to roll the extended route from Magazine and Jefferson all the way downtown. I had more than a few doubts leading up to the parade as to my abilities to walk a six-mile parade route. It was many years ago (and many pounds ago) that I last walked that far.

I was so excited that I barely slept the night before Okeanos. I have been so enthralled by Mardi Gras since my first one in New Orleans in 2008 that I was completely overwhelmed by the opportunity to be a part of it.

We arrived early at the home of Garrett, one of our superb Soul Sweepers, who had kindly made his home available as a meetup/makeup spot pre-parade. When all costumes and faces were in order, we headed over to Jefferson Avenue, where Okeanos was lining up to roll. We soon found our place behind the Morgus float—a most fitting place for a bone gang—and warmed up as we watched other walking groups find their places among the elaborate floats.

As the parade started and we turned onto Magazine Street, greeted by a throng of smiling and screaming parade-goers, I think we were all finally aware of where we were and what we were doing. At least, this was true for me. 

We strutted our stuff and danced and marched through all six miles of that parade, led by our proud Queen and by the joyous movements of the 504 Tag Team, Dancing Man 504 Darryl Young and Elsie Semmes. We beat our drums and boogied down the illustrious St. Charles Avenue and onto the crowded Canal Street, backed by the thundering rhythms of members of Brooklyn-based percussion group Maracatu New York, who had come down to roll with us. We threw the handmade throws that many had participated in making, from skellie-painted corks to hand-painted masks to Mardi Gras beads. Near the judges’ stand at Gallier Hall, I’m almost positive that I heard someone call us one of the most innovative new women’s krewes of the year. (Or perhaps that’s what I was told after the parade and I’m just assigning the memory to the event.)

I felt not a block of that six-mile walk, so enthralled was I to the magic that is Mardi Gras in New Orleans, to the cheering crowds and the smiling faces and the clapping hands, all the while knowing that they were clapping for us.

As the end of the route neared, exhaustion started to catch up, as did the pain in my feet that had been pushed aside by pure joy all day. Post-parade, some of us went in our own directions, and many wound up along the parade route at Lucky’s on St. Charles, where we spent the rest of the day enjoying the parades from across the avenue, seated comfortably on the patio outside, imbibing the alcohol we had so richly earned.

As the last of Bacchus passed us by, it was time to go home. We knew that cabs would be nonexistent and that public transportation was not an option, so several of us hoofed it, giving us a grand total of at least ten miles walked all day. 

I woke up the next morning barely able to walk, but with the satisfaction that all of my pain had come from doing something that I had dreamed of, something incredibly awesome, and something that would be remembered by at least some of the spectators along that parade route.

I’ve been told that we are now a sub-krewe of Okeanos, and that we will again be participating, no doubt with unbridled glee, in next year’s parade.

Still more to come…

Mardi Gras 2012 Roundup, Part 2

On Thursday, Loco and I went our separate ways, as she went to get her skellie on with the rest of our Skinz-n-Bonez krewe in support of the always popular Muses, and I headed to the home of my dear friend and personal Muse Celeste, where a ticket to the coveted Muses ball awaited me, as well as an epic pre-party hosted by Celeste’s husband Joe.

After much imbibing of some delicious punch and other goodies, our pre-party crew headed out to the street to wait for Muses. We arrived sometime after the end of Babylon and near the beginning of Chaos. The revelry continued and the streets became even more crowded as Muses approached.

Celeste had made certain that everyone knew her position on the float, so as float #5 approached we erupted into the street, screaming and calling her name. When she saw all of us, shoes (Muses signature throw) flew through the air. One landed squarely in my hands (I wouldn’t have kept it…I earned my shoe last year by getting drunk and falling under her float…but there were others in our group who would have appreciated it), but it was subsequently poached by a girl nearby who plucked it from my hands. I should have kicked her in the face, but I didn’t want to mar the night with violence, as it had already been interrupted by a shooting a few blocks away.

After Celeste’s float had passed us by, we headed back to Chez Celeste et Joe to ready ourselves for the Muses ball, which was held at the Contemporary Arts Center in the CDB. It wasn’t too terrible a walk from their Garden District abode, but it would have been much more pleasant had I worn more comfortable shoes.

Headlining the ball was none other than rock icon Joan Jett, who still looks and sounds fabulous. Aside from rolling with my Bonez, which I will detail in subsequent parts of this Mardi Gras roundup, the highlight of my Mardi Gras season was standing about 20 feet away from Joan Jett while she belted out I Love Rock ‘n Roll. It was, in a word, epic. And I will be forever grateful to Celeste for allowing me to be a part of the awesome celebration that was the Muses ball.

Long live Muses!

More to come…

Mardi Gras 2012 Roundup, Part 1

I’ve fallen well behind in my intended blogging about my Mardi Gras adventures this year, partly because of the post-Mardi Gras ick that has left me coughing and hacking and bedridden for the past week, but mostly because I’ve gotten so caught up in the excitement of it all that it’s been hard to sit myself down and sort through the cornucopia of images and emotions running through my head.

So before I get into blogging about our Uptown parade debut and Mardi Gras day, some highlights from this year’s Carnival season:

For those familiar with the reputation of Mardi Gras as gleaned from watching special episodes of COPS, I can assure you that this reputation is entirely false, and that such behavior as seen on said show has nothing to do with Mardi Gras, occurs all year long, especially on Bourbon Street, and is perpetuated by drunken tourists. The reason it’s been associated so thoroughly with Mardi Gras is that there are far more drunken tourists here during Carnival season than at any other time of year. In contrast, Mardi Gras is much more of a family affair. Parents and children line St. Charles Avenue, and I’ve often noted that only in New Orleans can you go into a hardware store and buy a ladder with a seat already attached to the top of it for the kiddies.

The 12-day Uptown parade season generally begins with Oshun a week and a half before Mardi Gras. Though a little chilly this year, I was surprised by how many people were out on the route. More people means more competition for good throws, but overall most spectators are courteous to others around them. Oshun led into Saturday’s triple-feature of Pontchartrain, Sparta, and Pygmalion. By Saturday night the weather was considerably colder. I hate the cold, but the Yankee in me thinks I should be able to bear any temperature drop the South should throw at me. Wishing for a cold spell did me no good this year, as it deterred no parade-goers and simply ensured that my poorly insulated house would be very cold overnight. Karma’s a bitch after all, it seems…

Sunday bloomed a beautiful sunny day, and I walked out to Napoleon Avenue, where the Krewe of Carrollton was lined up. Over the years I’ve stopped trying to snap photos during the parades, as it mostly results in me getting smacked in the face by beads when I’m not paying attention, but it was such a glorious day that I managed to snap quite a few pics during the parade, without getting hit in the face. I’d call that a successful day.

On Wednesday, my dear friend Paula (LocoBonez) arrived from Atlanta, and we braved the rain and snagged a good spot along Napoleon for both Druids and the debut of Nyx. Both parades were completely worth it, and we managed to snag almost two full bead bags of loot. Kudos to the lovely ladies of Nyx for their debut…beautiful floats and clever themes all-around. Loco and I had such a good time that we barely noticed that we were soaked to the bone by the end of the parade.

More to come…

Everybody Must Get Boned

This year marks my fifth Mardi Gras since my successful post-Katrina return to New Orleans, following my initial unsuccessful two-month pre-K migration south. This year, however, instead of standing idly on the sidelines (or neutral ground, as the case may be) letting my inner bead whore take over, I have popped my participation cherry and joined a krewe.

Skinz n Bonez — born in 2011 as the lovechild of Mardi Claw, the Queen herself — is New Orleans’ only female bone gang and rolls in support of the Mardi Gras Indians and with an eye toward furthering the culture of New Orleans’ secondline traditions. The Bonez are accompanied by Soul Sweepers, a skeletal band of escorts whose purpose is to sweep the souls out of our way and to provide security for the krewe. Rolling with the Bonez as well are Darryl “Dancing Man 504” Young and Wildman John of the Wild Tchoupitoulas Mardi Gras Indians.

My debut with the Bonez occurred this past Saturday, in the oft-overlooked krewedelusion parade, which rolls through the Marigny and French Quarter immediately after Krewe du Vieux. While delusion is only in its third year, KdV has been rolling through the Quarter for 20 years. While smaller, delusion is no less clever or enthusiastic, and I fully expect that with as much time it will be one of the hottest parades in New Orleans.

We began with a pre-party at “the den,” a warehouse space reserved for float-building and throw-making. We stuffed our faces, touched up skellie makeup, noshed on Jello shots (LOTS of them), and prepared to roll.

We lined up along Franklin Street in the Marigny and waited impatiently for KdV to roll by. I’m not sure about the rest of krewes in the the parade, but us Bonez were at maximum enthusiasm during the wait. Even before the parade had begun to roll I was already sporting a bruise on one hand and several blisters on the other from my vigorous tambourine-playing. Thank goodness one of our Soul Sweepers was armed with some skeleton-themed duct tape, which managed to cover the blisters.

The parade itself rolled quickly, with a few delays along the way. I recall passing all my friends at Miss Pat’s annual KdV party near the beginning of the route, and after that the faces became a blur as we frolicked and drummed and chanted our way through the Quarter...led by our Queen and our Dancing Man and our Indian. Our parade, unlike KdV, even took a lap down Bourbon Street, by far the busiest street in the Quarter.

The parade ended on St. Claude Avenue and morphed into the delusion “ball”: a party occurring at all four bars on the corner of Marigny and St. Claude. I think most of the Bonez milled about in the Hi Ho Lounge, which is, after all, our home base.

I consider my first Mardi Gras parade to be a smashing success. I am thrilled to have found such a fantastic and fun group of people to be around for my first Mardi Gras experience. But now that the first parade is over, it’s time to get serious about the next, much longer route we have in store for us on February 19, when Skinz n Bonez rolls with Okeanos, one of the large krewes. It’s a six-mile route, and I have some doubt as to my own ability, and the willingness of my knees and feet, to make that march. But I will do it, and though I may not be able to walk for a week afterward, I will lay in bed in agony and with complete satisfaction knowing that I am now a part of Mardi Gras instead of just a spectator.

The Detritus of Dreams

The detritus of dreams pools around ankles
leaves crackling, twigs snapping
a late-night melody of wasted youth transposed into
a symphony of a wasted adulthood

A roller-coaster speeds wildly along its track
its riders screaming in exhilaration
except for one lacking lap bar or safety belt
clinging to the grime-coated seat

A girl misses her father and imagines him back to visit
in the middle of a crowded street at Mardi Gras
an unlikely place to find him even if he were still alive
he hated crowds

A solitary traveler walks at dusk down an isolated road
its surface pockmarked with the faces of past lovers
she tries to tread lightly but in the end
painful impressions are all that remain behind

There is always movement but never progress
always flight but never escape
a train enters a tunnel but never emerges from the other side
a car plunges headfirst into an icy river

And I cannot breathe

© 2011 Melissa Lewis

One Year (8/29/06)

Posting an old piece, as today is K + 6...the Katrinaversary.


One Year (8/29/06)

10:25 a.m.

365 days ago right now I am
having a love/hate relationship
with the television
introspective
knees to chest on carpet
wrinkled pajamas
covered in layers of fur
from numerous refugee felines

I am still
optimistic because
the winds have changed
veered slightly to the east
slowed down
and passed through
with a roar
but without claws and teeth
not as hungry as she looked

The air is hot and damp
in Mississippi
but my eyes are still dry
I am not yet changed completely
not yet witness to the winds
that would tear the shutters
off the house
across the street
while I watched

Much later I would be
in the dark
in more ways than one
and when the shock rolled in
its waves would carry me north
instead of south
uprooted like the
tree-victims
fallen along the empty street


Copyright © 2006 Melissa Lewis

Doooooooooom…

I seem to be taking a lot of flack from friends since yesterday’s quake rocked the East Coast. Here I am visiting friends and family in Northeastern Pennsylvania and enjoying NOT being in the heat in NOLA for a change, and suddenly there’s an earthquake.

Personally, I didn’t feel a thing, although friends of mine did. It’s unlikely I would have noticed anything, as I was wandering around the Harford Fair with a high school pal of mine, and any rumbling of the earth that we might have felt was mostly likely camouflaged by the tractor pulls going on behind us.

Now, with Irene skirting up the East Coast, the berating continues. My reputation as the Harbinger of Doom is not intentional, though it’s not entirely unwarranted either. In 1972, the year after I was born, the Northeast got creamed by Hurricane Agnes. In the late 90s, after moving with a friend of mine into a small town in Northeastern PA, an F3 tornado tore through the area, leaving a path of destruction a half-mile wide. In May of 2001, I moved to New York City and several months later was watching one of the towers fall from the corner window of my midtown office building. In June of 2005 I moved to the Big Easy, and…well...we all know how that story ended.

I can see where these coincidences are perhaps a little…eerie. But I’ve never really destroyed anyplace I’ve simply been VISITING rather than living. So for now, at least, can you people please stop trying to run me out of town? I’m leaving next week anyway, so you can all stop offering to come over and pack my bags for me. 

I sweat, therefore I am.

And that is pretty much what summer in New Orleans feels like. I feel like I’ve done nothing blog-worthy in months. And really I haven’t. Okay, so there was Mardi Gras, and St. Patrick’s Day, and friends visiting, and my 40^th birthday celebrated in my favorite bar. Maybe it’s not that I haven’t done anything blog-worthy, but that really, at heart, I’m just a lazy piece of shit.

It does feel like the last few months have been spent doing nothing but sweating. Working from home is nice, but I miss my central air in my old apartment. When I’m not working, I’m either twiddling my thumbs waiting for my clients to pay me, or I’m out somewhere causing a disturbing amount of damage to my liver.

Most of the time I feel living in New Orleans is like being on a permanent vacation from which I have to take a break every now and then to do some work. But right now I need a break. Our heat indexes started topping 100 as early as June, and this month has included at least a week of excessive heat warnings and heat indexes ranging from 110 to 115. This week is slightly more bearable, as it feels like it’s only about 100 during the day.

I’ve already postponed one trip home this summer because of deadlines and late payments. I plan on taking that trip this week, up to cooler climes in northeastern Pennsylvania, to family and friends and mornings on my mother’s porch drinking coffee.

Of course, I’m making this trip right about when hurricane season is starting to pick up, so there will be no unplugging from my constant surveillance of the dozen or so weather Web sites I keep vigil over every year from June 1 to November 30.

But for now, I have nothing to complain about. I’m just looking forward to my trip home. In two weeks, I’ll really be looking forward to my trip back to NOLA. For now, I just really needed to remind myself what it feels like to put words to page. Because, in the end, words are really all I have.

Poem for Shamarr Allen

Another oldie getting added to the blog:

For Shamarr Allen at DBA June 7, 2007

I have no defense against

a trumpet that rages

from tender to tempest

in the blink of an eye

And I can't tell 

if those brass bends

are filled with heaven

or a hurricane

What kind of grace

does it take to blow 

notes like that

into a soul

Notes that breathe

a wicked fire

that smells like

desire and satisfaction

That tempt and forgive

and tease and lay bare all

the naked beauty

of a single note

hanging

in the air

it's more than just a show

it's more than just a show 

Copyright © 2007 Melissa Lewis

Poem for Paul Sanchez

I don't know how this didn't wind up in my blog before, but here it is. I suspect there's an updated version floating around here somewhere, but I can't find it at the moment.



For Paul Sanchez at DBA June 7, 2007

Rolling along
with the good times
this songwriter's shine
has enslaved me

might be the only
thing that can save me
from the parched dryness
of my wordless places

This storyteller's stage
is an oasis where even a poet
can feast on something
besides her own lonely phrases

and the room is
all but empty
and the stage is
all but bare

and there is desperation
in my inspiration
and it comes with
a melancholy aftertaste

But this is the only place
for poets tonight
beneath the lights
or at the bar

and here I am
and there you are


Copyright © 2007 Melissa Lewis

Mardi Gras Roundup, Part 1

Last Tuesday, everywhere else it was just a Tuesday. But here, in the Big Easy, it was the fattest of Tuesdays…Mardi Gras—that special time of year when my body seems to acquire more liquor, beads, and bruises than any other. In truth, I still adore Mardi Gras, though I’ve been told that I will eventually tire of it. I find that hard to believe, but you never know.

I’ve previously blogged in detail about my first Mardi Gras, so I’ll just sum up the highlights this time.

Carnival season begins officially on January 6, but the real parade season starts a few weeks before Mardi Gras, kicked off by Krewe du Vieux, the witty, irreverent, and often dirty parade that rolls through the Marigny and the French Quarter. KdV rolled on February 19 this year, rather later than usual because of the late Mardi Gras. I’m always thrilled to have the wonderful friends I have here in New Orleans, and I’m even more thrilled when it just so happens that they live along the parade route, as my friend Pat does along the KdV route. Pat has an adorable apartment and makes awesome food (I found out what heaven tastes like…candied bacon) and graciously opens her home to friends and extended friends for a great time. And the parade passes right in front of her apartment. What could be better?

(As an interesting aside, someone asked me how they determine when Mardi Gras falls each year. I knew it was tied to Easter and Ash Wednesday, but I’ve never really looked into why the date of Easter changes yearly until a friend asked me to put my Google Ninja skills to work and find out. To sum up, what I found is that Easter is based on lunar cycles and falls on the first Sunday AFTER the first full moon AFTER the first day of spring. Got that? Yeah, it took me a while too.)

Following KdV, I had almost a week’s rest to get ready to jump right into the Uptown parade season, which started on Friday, February 25 with the Krewe of Oshun. Saturday followed with the krewes of Pontchartrain, Sparta, and Pygmalion, and Sunday featured Carrollton and King Arthur.

By Monday I was ready for a break and trying to make a deadline for an important client. Something had to be sacrificed, and this year it was the Krewe of Druids on Wednesday, which happened to roll on my deadline night. Sorry, Druids. I’ll get you next year.

Deadline met, by Thursday I was exhausted and excited for the krewes of Babylon, Chaos, and (most importantly) one of my all-time favorites, Muses. My dear friend Celeste rides in Muses, and for the past three years has taken care to throw Anne-Marie and me some stellar schwag. This year, I was really hoping for a decorated Muses shoe, the throw for which they are most famous. (I note in an early blog how I was almost sacrificed to the coconut gods for a Zulu coconut during my first Mardi Gras…this seems to be a theme for me.)

As Celeste’s float approached, we crossed the street and waited for her with our sign (made by Anne-Marie) and a bead bag to catch anything she might toss. The crowd surged. The shoe came down, and apparently it wasn’t the only thing that went down, as the last thing Celeste saw from the float’s upper level was a policeman pulling me out from under the float by my pants. Thanks to Smirnoff vodka, I have no recollection of this brush with death. I know only that in the end I wound up with a huge bruise on my knee…and a shoe. Celeste immediately sent me a text to see if I was all right, thinking that she had killed me. I may have been too inebriated to respond.

I offered to share joint custody with Anne-Marie, but she declined, saying that it obviously meant more to me than to her.

Later that evening, on the walk home to my house, I took another tumble, again right in front of a police officer. This one I remember, and I recall him picking me up off the sidewalk and me saying: “It’s all right. I do this all the time. I’m Polish.”

I was bruised and battered and drunk, but the proud owner of a glittery Muses shoe. Totally worth it.

  More to come. Stay tuned.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

That’s right…not Christmas, not Easter, but Carnival time! That special time of year when the streets are crowded with gawking tourists, decent parking is impossible to find, and Bourbon Street drunks bare their wares more frequently than any other time of year.

All this aside, it’s still the most wonderful time to live in New Orleans. Costumes are being constructed, businesses are thriving, and residents seem (mostly) happy.

Because Mardi Gras falls so late this year, the weather is also warmer than usual, ensuring that more and more people will be willing to stand outside for hours to watch the parades pass by and collect assorted loot (beads, cups, stuffed animals, etc.).

This year, I’m determined to put together a costume for Mardi Gras itself. Until last year, I stayed in my Uptown neighborhood until all the parades of the day (Zulu, Rex, and the truck parades) rolled on by, then took my loot and relaxed at home with a drink or 12. (Catching beads all day, and occasionally getting hit in the face with them, can be exhausting.) Last year, after an especially long stall in the middle of Rex, I decided to go home, throw something together, and head to the Quarter. I went home and whipped together a skirt made of beads and threw on some various Mardi Gras accessories, most of which had been caught from other parades—headband, purple feather boa, MG-themed sunglasses—and headed downtown with my roommate.

The French Quarter on Mardi Gras is an absolute madhouse, not to mention a visual cornucopia of sights and sounds, colors and costume. It’s chaos and cacophony and brilliant, brilliant fun. The costumes alone are worth braving the crowds and making the trip.

Last year, for Halloween, I put my not-so-crafty self to work making a costume. I should emphasize here how not-domestic I am. I cannot sew. I barely cook. I have never endeavored to get all crafty and have never in my life owned a glue gun until now. My conversation with my mother (who happens to be incredibly crafty) went like this:

Mom: Watch out…glue guns are very hot.

Me: Duh. I think I’m smart enough to use a glue gun.

Five minutes later, post-phone conversation:

Me: YEEEOOOOWWWW that’s hot!!! Oops, I think I just glued my finger to the table.

In the end, the costume (a voodoo doll) came out acceptable enough. So this year I’ve decided to put my craft non-skills to work again in order to make a costume for Mardi Gras. This calls for a trip to costume shops, the Salvation Army, and Michael’s craft store. The only thing standing in my way now is this little thing called “working for a living.”

Working from home is both a blessing and a pain. I’d love to get started on my costume now, leaving myself lots of time to screw it up and have to start all over. But I don’t think my clients would appreciate blowing off my looming deadline because of the importance of Mardi Gras. They don’t live here. They just don’t understand.

Fortunately, my current deadline falls a week before Mardi Gras, leaving me that much time to get my imagination rolling and try to come up with something. I have ideas floating around in my head but lack the artistic vision to bring them to reality. I’m a word girl, not an artist. But I’ll do the best I can.

Whatever the result matters not. It’s all part of the experience. It’s the love of Mardi Gras, of parades, of friends, and of New Orleans. In the end, it’s all about the joy and fun of sharing the day with others.

Laissez les bon temps rouler!

Peaches

My street smells like peaches

in the middle of the night

when I’m drunk

Or perhaps that’s just what I imagine

so tired of the scents of

crowded bars and cigarettes

and stuffy cabs on

humid nights so withering

that I forget it’s autumn and not

the middle of summer

as I stumble over darkened

root-fingers that want me to stay

and sit among the leaves

and scampering anoles

and tell tall tales about the night

I was accosted by the peach trees

Everything I never wanted to know about leprosy…

…I learned from James Carville. Yes, THAT James Carville. Seriously.

Last weekend I attended the 24^th annual Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival, an extravaganza of wordiness and worldliness, featuring writers, publishers, performers, and literary experts from around the country.

I didn’t get to take advantage of everything the fest had to offer, but I did get to enjoy some fantastic events and meet some fantastic people.

On Thursday night I competed in the festival’s poetry slam, held at One Eyed Jack’s and hosted by New Orleans’ own Chuck Perkins. It was my first time competing in a slam, though I’ve been doing readings for years. My friend Becky showed up to show some support, and while I didn’t win, I didn’t really expect to. There were tons of fabulous poets there, including the slam poets; Chuck Perkins; and my friend and festival organizer, poetry goddess Lane Lane Miller.

On Friday, as a favor to Laura, I helped out at the festival’s information booth, directing fest-goers to events, restrooms, restaurants, ticket sales, etc., and checking in authors, panelist, and board members. While I had put the previous night’s slam out of my mind already, I was thrilled to have a least a half dozen people recognize me throughout the day as one of the competitors and congratulate me on my performance. Even though I well aware that there were many poets there who were better than I was and never really intended to win, being recognized repeatedly for doing a good job made my day.

Like other festival volunteers, I received a panel pass for the remaining days of the festival, which I took full advantage of. Saturday I began the day with “Conversation with James Carville,” which led right into “Kept In, Kept Out: The Haunting Secrets of Carville, Louisiana,” a panel that featured James Carville, Jose Ramirez Jr. (author of Squint: My Journey with Leprosy), Neil White (In the Sanctuary of Outcasts: A Memoir), and Marcia G. Gaudet (author of Carville: Remembering Leprosy in America).

While most people are accustomed to hearing James Carville speak as a world-renowned political consultant, listening to him recount his days as a young boy growing up in rural Louisiana was a refreshing and fascinating change.

Carville (which was renamed to its current name in 1909…the postmaster’s name was Carville) was the home of the national Hansen’s Disease Center, which operated for more than 100 years as a “leprosarium” and for a short time as a federal prison. Hansen’s disease is more commonly known to most people as leprosy, though Hansen’s disease is the correct and acceptable name.

Aside from James Carville’s memories of growing up in Carville, for me the most interesting panel member was Jose Ramirez Jr., a native of Laredo, Texas, who in 1968 was diagnosed with Hansen’s disease and banished to the Hansen’s Disease Center. His story was gripping, and his struggle to recover and then to educate others on the truth about Hansen’s disease was inspirational.

At one point in the discussion, Ramirez challenged his audience to go out and educate ten people on what they had learned that day. Here’s what I learned.

The word “leper” is NEVER acceptable, as its connotations are far more negative than just a description for persons suffering from Hansen’s.

Hansen’s disease, while challenging to diagnose, as it requires a biopsy and a specific test, is easily curable. It’s a chronic bacterial disease and is treated with antibiotics. Persons diagnosed with it are most often treated as an outpatient and cured within 48 hours. Not treated. Cured.

Hansen’s disease is not as contagious as people have long believed. In fact, no more than 5 percent of the population is susceptible to the bacteria that cause the disease.

The Hansen’s Disease Center closed its doors in 1999, but this place is now the site of the National Hansen's Disease Museum.

I could probably go on about how fascinating this panel was, but the rest of the festival was equally as informative and entertaining. After the panel on Carville, Louisiana, I attended one called “The Civil Way in Fact and Fiction,” featuring Robert Hicks (author of A Separate Country, a novel about General John Bell Hood) and Molly Haskell (author of Frankly, My Dear: “Gone With the Wind” Revisited). Hicks spoke about General Hood as a man and as a general, his life, and his leadership. Haskell’s book focuses on the making of the film Gone With the Wind, which I’m thinking it might be time for me to finally read/see.

I left that panel to head immediately to “The Business Side of the Publishing Industry: The Agent, Editor, and Publisher Connection,” in which the panelists, all experts in their fields, walked attendees though the details of finishing a book, acquiring an agent, finding a publisher, and communication with publicity experts to market your book.

While it was very informative, from my perspective, I won’t go into all the details. Suffice it to say that I’m acquiring a good base of knowledge in case I ever get motivated enough to write a book.

The same can be said of the following morning’s panel, “Books Unbound: How Digital Delivery Is Changing How Stories Are Told, Sold, and Read.” Sounds fascinating, doesn’t it? Eh. Probably not from an average reader’s perspective. But as a writer these are considerations that will affect me one way or another in the future, unless I never aspire to write a novel or story or book of poetry and just continue posting silly blogs for the rest of my days.

I took a break from my fest-going to partake of some refreshing libations at New Orleans’ best bar, the Erin Rose. With good prices, a largely local clientele, and an awesome staff, this is my favorite place in the city. If you haven’t been there and you live here, well, shame on you. If you live elsewhere and haven’t been there, that’s just one more excuse to come visit me.

Also occurring simultaneously as the literary festival this weekend was the New Orleans Roadfood Festival on Royal Street, featuring some great food from not only around Louisiana but around the country. Hats off to the barbecue joint from Texas, Louie Meuller’s Texas Barbecue, who brought their whole smoker with them. Man, that was some damn good brisket.

I followed up my brisket-filled mouth-gasm with an event that closes out the Tennessee Williams New Orleans Literary Festival each year — the Stella and Stanley shouting contest, the preliminaries of which are held in Jackson Square from one of the balconies of the Cabildo. Stella, in all her Southern charm, stood perched on the balcony awaiting her callers. Next to her was Stanley, last year’s winner of the contest. Twenty-five contestants competed in the contest, which was open to both men and women. I was pleased to see my friend Brian in the contest…nice job, Brian! Of the contestants in the preliminaries, three were women, but only one shouted for Stanley (even though I thought he was pretty good looking). I found that…interesting.

I didn’t stay for the finals of the contest, as I had spent the weekend ignoring my own clients and work and needed to go home to catch up. In true New Orleans fashion, I met up with my dear friends Andie and Charlie on the way home and wound up drinking far too much wine to get any work done. But it was totally worth it.

Overall, I’m a bit ashamed that I didn’t attend more of the literary festival when I knew about it last year. I’ve gained a great deal more insight into the publishing world than I had before, listened to participants’ heartfelt stories, and met some amazing people.

And I now have many more authors to add to my own Amazon wishlist. I may never finish reading…

When the Saints Go Marching In…

Those who know me (and sometimes love me) know that I am a transplanted Yankee from a rural corner of Pennsylvania. Though I have always been and will always be a devoted Eagles fan first and foremost, I do love me some Saints. I have to, as New Orleans is my adopted home.

I was among the crowds on the streets of New Orleans when the Saints brought home the NFC Championship on January 24 by beating the Vikings with an overtime field goal, causing the city to erupt into a massive, spontaneous, citywide orgasm. The level of pure, unadulterated joy was something I’ve never seen before, anywhere.

In the two weeks between the NFC Championship game and the Super Bowl, New Orleans also went about its annual business of hosting the best party ever…Carnival, or Mardi Gras season. It’s one of the things the city does best, and one of my favorite times of year. While most people who have never visited New Orleans associate Mardi Gras with the drunken debauchery and crime displayed on shows like “Cops,” that’s not really what it’s about at all. Though trust me, the debauchery happens all year long on Bourbon Street, thanks to hoards of inebriated tourists. (And yes, I was once one of them.)

But Mardi Gras is so much more than that. Sure, it’s a party. Sure, there’s drinking, sometimes. But the popular myth that only by flashing their bodacious ta-tas to passing floats can women get beads is entirely untrue. That’s what Bourbon Street is for. All year long.

Along the major parade route, St. Charles Avenue, the streets are lined with families, friends, students, residents, tourists, etc. The kids are perched in ladders with attached seats that can be purchased at any local hardware store. The vibe is mostly friendly (except, in my experience, at Zulu’s parade, where I found the quest for the famous Zulu coconuts to be much more cutthroat).

Mardi Gras is much more civilized and much more family-oriented that some TV shows would have you believe. There are no barricades along the Uptown route. Children and adults are free to walk up to the floats to get beads, or stand back yelling, “Hey, throw me something, please!”

I find this year that yelling “WHO DAT?!” is also an effective way to get riders to throw you the loot.

The Super Bowl this year landed squarely in the midst of the city’s Mardi Gras celebrations. I watched the game from the best bar in New Orleans, the Erin Rose. The place was so packed that we watched the game from outside one of the two large windows at the front of the bar, where we had a great view of the big-screen TV on the wall.

No one in sports really expected the Saints to win this one. Sportscasters all over had pretty much handed an easy win to the Colts before the game ever started.

But the Who Dat Nation never lost faith. We yelled. We screamed. We hugged strangers in the street. We never gave up because the Saints never gave up.

The win was a beautiful thing for New Orleans. Once again, the streets overflowed with screaming fans, many shedding tears for something they’ve been waiting for their entire lives.

I’ve recently been called a traitor to my own team by jumping ship and sporting a black-and-gold Who Dat shirt. I’ve never in my life worn anything but my beloved Philly green, but I don’t think I’m a traitor. I don’t think I jumped ship either. Since Philly didn’t even make it that far, I don’t think they’d mind me supporting the city in which I live now…the city I love.

I donned the black-and-gold Who Dat shirt again for the Saints victory parade last night through New Orleans. While no official estimate of the crowds is available yet, once reporter guesstimated that there might possibly have been 800,000 people there, lined up to see their beloved Saints. Many people across the river on the West Bank waited hours to cross the river by ferry, and some never made it at all because of the crowds.

It wouldn’t surprise me at all if that 800,000 were accurate. I saw the crowds. I was crammed up against a barricade at Lee Circle for several hours before the parade even started and the crowds started gathering. It was an awe-inspiring experience, despite the cold and the wait.

What most people don’t realize, however, is that the crowd would have been just as large and just as enthusiastic had the Saints lost the Super Bowl. This is, after all, New Orleans in the middle of Carnival. This is a city with a soul like no other. New Orleans loves their Saints, and they love their parades.

I still believe that right now this city is the happiest place on Earth. Eat your heart out, Disney.