Lagniappe

For the first time since I can remember (I’m 27 so my memory only spans a handful of elections), a presidential primary will actually mean something in the state of Pennsylvania. Usually by the time the race gets to the Keystone State, the nominees are already a forgone conclusion and the votes cast by Pennsylvanians are nothing more than ceremonial pull of the lever.

The presidential primary process has never really made much sense to me. I’m sure there’s a convoluted reason why a phased approach to nominating a candidate for president is best. I’ve just always felt that it’s ignored the voices of so many (including Pennsylvanians) in making a decision that will greatly affect their lives over the coming four years.

But with last night’s democratic primaries in Ohio and Texas going to Hilary Clinton, delegate totals in the democratic race are going to inch closer together making the next three months a knock-down, drag-out fight for the nomination. With 188 juicy delegates and a month and a half before primaries in Pennsylvania, Barack and Hil Dog will be crossing the state more than Joe Paterno during recruiting season. They’ll go to steel mills in Pittsburgh, VFWs in Bradford, arenas in Philly, and, of course, they’ll make their way up to our beautiful little protrusion in the northwest corner of the state. Good Old Erie.

Both Obama and Clinton will visit armed eloquent speeches dripping with empathy for the problems Erie residents deal with on a daily basis. They’ll promise jobs, industry, economic prosperity, hope. The issues thoughtfully discussed everyday on this site will be encapsulated into five-word sound-bytes to be played on every major news outlet. The key is to never let them forget their promises in the event one of them wins the presidency.

It’s going to be quite the show in Pennsylvania over the coming month. I wish I could be there to see it.

I woke up today with intention of writing a post about the NBA All-Star Weekend that took place here in New Orleans. I was going to talk about how great it was to see all the tourists in the French Quarter. How I felt like a lanky 12 year old again as I looked up at some of the basketball players I used to idolize: Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson, Charles Oakley, Dr. J. How appreciative I was that David Stern and the NBA made this kind of commitment to New Orleans.

Then I logged on to espn.com and read the recent column by Bill Simmons. He was able to say everything I wanted to write about the city and what the NBA has meant to it except in a more eloquent way than I could ever imagine (hey, I can admit it). He was also able to do what no other outside reporter has been able to do since Hurricane Katrina: accurately capture the sentiment of Post-K New Orleans.

Other outsiders have talk about a city “struggling” to get back to its feet. They make us seem like a charity case…even now. But that’s not how New Orleanians feel. Sure we’re still angry, tired at times. But don’t confuse that for us looking for pity. If you come for Mardi Gras or Jazz Fest and see the joyous atmosphere that defines this city, pity will be the last thing on your mind. That’s all we really want people to do—come, spend money, see the city for themselves. Bill Simmons captured all of this magnificently.

So please read the article above. As an adopted New Orleanian, I’ve been waiting two years for someone to write these 2500 words.

Who would have thought that the answer to this age-old question could be found on a French Quarter street during Mardi Gras?

I’ve now lived through two and a half Mardi Gras’s, picking up some valuable information along the way. For any of you Erie-ites that may decide to make your way here for Carnival in the next coming years, I thought I would share some of the things I’ve learned.

Pace yourself - Mardi Gras is technically only one day (the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday) but the celebration stretches for close to three weeks. When the most intense parading hits (Thursday-Tuesday), it’s best to take it easy for one of the days so you can finish strong on Fat Tuesday.

Let it lie - A cautionary tale. The nephew of a friend of mine had a toy that would light up when you put it in your mouth. As the parades went by he began flailing his arms in the air. While doing this, the mouthpiece flew out of his mouth and onto the ground. A woman next to them noticed the mouthpiece, picked it up and placed it directly into her own child’s mouth. Moral of the story: There will be millions of throws tossed during Mardi Gras. If there’s one on the ground just let it lie.

Make it to Zulu - After a long weekend of parades and parties the thought of getting up at 8 am on Tuesday may sound like hell on Earth. Those brave souls that are able to pull themselves out of bed are treated to one of the best Mardi Gras parades. Zulu is one of the oldest parades and if you play your cards right you might walk home with a Zulu Coconut.

Go to the Quarter during the day - Hitting up the sights and sounds (and smells) of the French Quarter after the parades sounds like a great idea but make it down there and you’ll find a mob of people that feels something like an ocean rip tide that could take you under at any point. If you go during the day you get to do some people watching without having to fight for your life.

A Family Affair - When most people think about Mardi Gras they envision the French Quarter brimming with drunken co-eds compromising themselves for beads. But if you head uptown you’ll see a much more G-rated scene—Kids on their fathers’ shoulders and families in matching costumes. Mardi Gras is a holiday to be celebrated by everyone.

Baring it all - Mardi Gras is about letting your inhibitions go. Throwing caution to the wind. If that means taking off your shirt and throwing that to the wind for pieces of stringed plastic, know that there will be people taking pictures and video. Beads will come and go but shame, that lasts forever.

Bring a costume – Only in New Orleans is there a costumed celebration that rivals Halloween. You’ll see people in costume all week long but Mardi Gras day is when every comes out clad in their best (or worst or nothing at all). Some are funny. Some are lewd. Some are just plain ridiculous. Whatever you do just wear a costume and be a part of the fun.

Tonight (it was supposed to be yesterday but the threat of rain moved it to Friday) is my unofficial start of Mardi Gras. For some it’s Krewe de Vieux, the satirical and irreverent Marigny/French Quarter parade two weekends prior to Mardi Gras. For others it’s Barkus, the walking parade where New Orleanians dress their dogs in ridiculous costumes and parade them throughout the French Quarter so the dogs have to drop their heads in shame the next time they see each other at the park (check out my pictures from Barkus below).

For me it’s the Muses parade. I may have gone to a couple parades this past weekend, but Muses is when I cut loose and get lost in the spirit of Mardi Gras. That means five straight days of parades, throws, parties, food and drinks. Hopefully I get just enough done at work so that come Ash Wednesday I still have a job. If I tried to celebrate for the three-odd weeks that the parades are rolling I’d likely be without a job, back living at my parents house.

I’ll try to post pictures from tonight’s parades and the ones over the weekend so you can get a taste of what Mardi Gras is all about.

In reading Peter’s post about Martin Luther King Day and all the comments about race in Erie and beyond I began to think about the state of race relations in my new home: New Orleans.

In this city you can drive down St. Charles Ave. and marvel at the ginormous mansions lining the street, rich, predominately white neighborhoods sit within blocks of poor, predominately black neighborhoods. The thought would be that living in proximity to each other would breed communication, understanding, tolerance. It couldn’t be farther from reality. What it breeds is distrust and fear from both sides.

Race issues are just different in New Orleans. If not different, unavoidable. They’re ingrained through generations of tragically poor public education (which had a student population that was 94% black prior to the storm), unusually high crime rates, unsatisfactory public housing, and leadership, both black and white, that consistently chooses to line its own pockets rather than improve the lives of poor black (and white for that matter) New Orleanians.

So the issues fester and the racism boils to the surface. When I first moved here I was at a St. Patrick’s Day street party. I had just happened to start talking to a random guy and within 2 minutes he went on an expletive ridden tirade about how black people (not his choice of word) were ruining the city. I eventually had to just walk away. This wasn’t an isolated incident. A friend of mine from Erie had a similar experience when he was visiting for Mardi Gras.

We just aren’t exposed very often to these types of outward displays of racism in Erie. Down here, people with racist beliefs just seem more comfortable sharing them with anyone. That’s not to say it’s worse in New Orleans than other northern cities like Erie. Which is more destructive, to use hateful language and outwardly act on racial stereotypes or to force a smile when interacting with people of different races and then tell racist jokes behind closed doors? To me, neither is better. Neither is worse. They’re both just sad.

I’m not going to begin to claim that I know how to solve this problem here or anywhere for that matter. I don’t buy the “bootstraps” argument. Without quality public education, there are no bootstraps to pull. On the other hand, throwing widespread assistance at the poor hasn’t been shown to bring about the systemic change we’re looking for, especially in this city. All I can hope for is that all the change happening in this city will include an evaluation of how we view each other because if we can begin to trust each other that’s when change will happen.

Just something to think about as Mardi Gras approaches:

“It has been said that a Scotchman has not seen the world until he has seen Edinburgh; and I think that I may say that an American has not seen the United States until he as seen Mardi-Gras in New Orleans.”
- Mark Twain, 1859

There’s still time to make plans for coming to Mardi Gras. It’s so much more than the stereotypical drunken co-eds exposing themselves and surrendering their dignity for 59 cent pieces of plastic. There are parades and parties and a never ending smorgasbord of food and drink. You have to do it one time in your life (Twain said so), why not this year?

Has anyone ever heard of a ’soogen’? Yeah, me neither. Well, not until I went to Alabama to visit my girlfriend’s family. With the nights being unseasonably cold and my head being devoid of hair, I was in need of some cranial warmth. My girlfriend said, “Why don’t you put on your soogen?” I just starred at her like you do when someone speaks to you in a foreign language. She might as well have been speaking Swahili. Recognizing the completely blank stare on my face she said, “You know, a toboggan.” I knew this word but it only caused more confusion because clearly I wasn’t going to wear a large wooden sled on my head.

Finally, I realized she was talking about a winter hat and we proceeded to banter back and forth about the appropriate name for a hat that you wear when it’s really cold out (Or if you’re bald like me…when the temperature drops below 55). She grew up in Alabama. Spent her whole life in the South. I think I have the relative authority to over-rule her on the naming of any and all winter apparel. Now if I’m trying to come up with an acceptable synonym for, say, iced tea or peach cobbler, I will default to her. But anything involving cold weather, that’s my jurisdiction.

Though I have to say, I am a little jealous and a bit perturbed that they have colorful names for an article of clothing I’ve always linearly described as a “winter hat.” You’d think that living through the five-month winters as I used to, I’d have more than enough time to consider other names for a hat I wear in the winter. Nope. It’s still just a winter hat, stocking cap, beanie, or, if I’m feeling edgy, a skull cap.

So as we trudge through the next couple months of winter, lets think of some good names for a stocking cap that will make all our fellow snow dwellers proud.

For me, today is the most bittersweet day of the year. Not because of the excitement of the new year or the reflection on missed opportunities in ’07. No, today is bittersweet because it’s the last full day of college football for the next eight months. Though my Saturdays will get a whole lot more productive from now until September, nothing beats sitting on a couch for hours on end while watching college kids throw a ball around. 90% of the time I don’t even care who’s playing…I just find a reason to root for or against one of the teams.

Tonight I’ll be celebrating this final day of wall-to-wall football by going to see two teams I couldn’t care less about. And I couldn’t be any happier. In a couple hours I’ll be in the SuperDome watching Georgia play Hawaii in the Sugar Bowl. Though I’d much rather be seeing Penn State or Texas play, the opportunity to go to a BCS game isn’t something I’d ever pass up. I’ll be rooting for Georgia solely because I’m going with a bunch of Georgia fans. My loyalties can be quite fickle. No matter who wins, I can’t think of a better way to ring in the new year.

In the fifty-five hours I’ve been home for the holidays I have:

Had 75-cent drinks at Peccadillo’s

Gotten served in a dance battle at Skeeter’s

Yelled at the television as the Browns threw away a win

Eaten the hot wings at Plymouth

Slipped on some ice and ended up flat on my back

Sat with seven of my best friends as we relentlessly made fun of each other

It’s great to be home.