[This is a continuation of the author's series on New Orleans lessons, to commemorate both the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina as well as her 10th anniversary of living in New Orleans .]

S is for Savoring

It's no coincidence that I've learned how to meditate while living in New Orleans. Nor is it a coincidence that I've learned about the Slow Food movement and taken up gardening. If my northern family thought I was slow before, they think I'm downright sluggish now, after ten years of New Orleans life. And that's fine with me: living slowly allows me to contentedly follow my own muse, and screw the rest.

People ask how we can deal with the heat down here, and it's simple (but not always easy): slow down. Don't run anywhere; take your time and just relax. Sit and have some water. Take a nap. Watch the sunset. Savor your life before it passes you by.

T is for Traditions

Because we take life so slow around here, we make the time to hold onto our dear traditions. From red beans on Monday to grillades on Sunday, our heritage finds its way into our daily lives. If you take the streetcar downtown, or go to the racetrack on Thanksgiving, or eat king cake on Twelfth Night, or fix black-eyed peas and cabbage for the new year, or go to Galatoire's every Friday, or drive in the Mardi Gras truck parade, or start Jazzfest in the Gospel tent, you know what I mean.

I could go on and on with these standard traditions, but there are plenty of good ones dreamed up by our creative population. Grilling out on the neutral ground for Lundi Gras. Making waffles for brunch on Super Sunday. Spending Halloween in the graveyard. Rereading Gone With the Wind to cope with an Ash Wednesday hangover.

If you've got a juicy tradition to share, please leave a comment - you know we New Orleanians are always hungry for new ways to pass a good time!

To add to Kelly's blog about the Francophilian festivities tomorrow, the Faubourg St. John Merchants Association will also be celebrating Bastille Day tomorrow evening. Head over to the 3100 block of Ponce deLeon (between Liuzza's By the Track and Esplanade Avenue) between 5 and 9 pm for this free event which will include gustatory delights, plenty of French wine, kids' activities, and music by Va Va Voom, which I believe is French for "Yee-haw!!"

Rumor has it that people will be playing Petanque, a French lawn game similar to the Italian bocce ball, where one tries to throw a ball at another ball. The sort of sport one enjoys in the summertime, outdoors, with glass of wine in hand.

I've been thinking about France quite a bit after seeing Michael Moore's film Sicko, which does quite a bit of romanticizing about France, including scenes where he speaks to American ex-pats in Paris who literally gush about their new home. He slathers the romance on pretty thick, with a montage scene of lovers cooing to each other in a French park, but does so to combat some of our recent Francophobia best exemplified by the term "Freedom Fries." (Those silly French, so foolish as to believe that war in Iraq was - gasp - a bad idea!)

One point Moore made about the French, who daily suffer through the afflictions of universal health care, a 35-hour work week and cheap wine, is that the government serves the people because of the storming of the Bastille. With that event, the French people proved that the people are a very powerful force, to be feared and respected by their leaders. To this day, the French are fond of protesting and reminding their elected leaders of who's really in charge.

In that spirit, let's remember that Bastille Day is about revolution, and I can't think of a better place for it than right here in the NO. Not only do we have our French heritage to bolster the revolutionary spirit, but frankly, the city is still in need of revolutionary changes. We've already got a Reign of Terror here in the States, why not supplement it with revolution?

Personally, I think we should go with Anne Lamott's plan for revolution, which proposes more kindness and libraries. You can read her ideas at this link. So if you do come on out to Bayou St. John on Saturday, be sure to leave your cellphones at home and bring some fruit to share!

We pick the best images added to the Blogging New Orleans flickr group and post a resized version with a link to the original here. Be sure to check back here for another NOLApic.

There's something I just love about this picture, taken by Jac Currie of Defend New Orleans. It's one of many pictures he took on Father's Day at the Jubilee Block Party in the Lower Garden District. Check out his Flickr set for more....they're all full of such color, vibrance and life. It looks like there was a fantastic mix of people there and that a great time was had by all. Events like this are one of those things you gotta love about New Orleans.

[Recovery Pen is a semi-weekly column which tries to provide a clever take on New Orleans life.]

So if you're not here to witness it firsthand, let me tell you that June is the month in which everything slows down. Way down. The college kids have scrambled back to their northern homelands, the musicians have gone on tour, anyone with a few extra bucks has made arrangements to get the hell out of Dodge. Restaurants and shops close. Of course, no one minds the heat. It's that humidity that makes us crazy to the point of homicide.

And the bugs.

And the "budget" summer tourists who don't tip.

And, of course, the likelihood of being drowned in a killer storm.

That said, I wish I could say that "Recovery Pen" is on hiatus due to Prince Charming whisking me off to lounge away the summer solstice in the Riviera. But no. Although life slows down for everyone else, my work has been heating up. I help run an alternate-certification program for teachers here in the NO, and anyone who works in education administration knows, summer is a busy time. Currently, I'm in charge of an event where first-year teachers' performance portfolios are assessed by experienced educators, so that these first-years can get their Louisiana certification in the fall.

True, this work probably isn't as important as gadding on about local characters in a public forum, but I gotta pay the bills. So don't despair, dear readers! Recovery Pen is in a brief dormancy, soon to emerge from its sweltering cocoon.

Upcoming topics: building a Bike Project bike, travelling circuses, hula-hoopers, high-school hijinks, and so much more.

Over the weekend, I (alone, should there by any inquiries) went to a local university and rummaged through its many dumpsters, braving many a stench, to bring you this report on a ritual known as Hippy Christmas. Although I don't know whether or not the term has its roots in '60s counter-culture or is just an homage to the cheapskate mentality of the namesakes, either way it has become a ritual of modern higher education.

"Hippy Christmas" is the time of year when tens of thousands of the nation's university students move out of their dorms. In the rush to get the hell out of town, or because college authorities demand that a dorm room be clean when these young, often well-provided for people leave for the summer, students sort through everything they have and invariably throw away many still-useful items. From unopened or unused school supplies to brand-new clothes, from fans with one screw loose to perfectly functional printers, refrigerators, coffee makers, televisions, and more, American students throw it all away.

It's obscene, really, that every year perfectly good and usable things wind up tossed out as trash, but that's where Hippy Christmas comes in. Adherents salvage the goods, the fans, the lamps, the books, the clothing, and a thousand other things that young people toss away as trash, and either use them for themselves or give them away. It may seem a strange ritual, some may even find it nauseating, this dumpter-diving, but it can't be more nauseating that the fact that our college-educated young people have become accustomed to such wastefulness as a birthright.

So, every year, the foolhardy and the brave fan out across the nation's campuses to reclaim what young men and women throw away, to return to use that which was destined for burial, to reduce the sheet tonnage of garbage moving through the wastestream by a tiny fraction.

Really, though, I was just there looking for stuff for my new home. I found more than I expected. At the end of this post, you will find a partial list of items I removed from the dumpsters at a local university, in under 2 hours on one night. It wasn't clean work; heavy boots and long pants are a must, gloves are recommended and a flashlight essential. I didn't even have to tear into trashbags, the best things are often just sitting there beside the dumpsters. And inside the construction-sized dumpsters the goodies are mostly in plain sight. Luckily, the kids only seem to bag up nasty, embarassing things. The rest is just dumped out in boxes or bins.

I wonder sometimes if future archeologists will mine our landfills to understand our times better. What will they think? Perhaps our gigantic trash gravesites will eventually become resource bases for the wretched of the earth, as already happens in many of the world's poorer nations. The things kids -- really, all of us -- throw away are things that the poorest of the poor will likely never have the luxury of seeing. Food from university dumpsters alone could feed thousands (admittedly, it is canned or prepackaged food being thrown away, so maybe the hungry would politely decline...). This food, instead, will either be eaten by rats or worms or will be sealed in the trash, aging like a clay pot from a Native American tribe in a midden of clamshells.

Here, then, is a list, in no specific order, of items I removed from dumpsters at a local university last weekend.

Working HP PSC 1610 All-in-One printer (needs new ink cartridges)

Coffee bean grinder, working

Table lamp, working, bulb good

Small coffee maker, new but dirty

Unopened HPInk cartridge 02 (doesn't fit that printer)

Step trash cans, large (1) and small (1), functional, need thorough decontamination

Flexfit black mesh baseball cap, new with tags

Metal mesh garbage cans, medium sized (3)

Kensington computer backpack, new with tags; backpack included notebooks (2 unwritten in, one for lefties), a Sudoku book, and other odd bits

Unopened packages: Eight (8) "AA" batteries, use-before date 2013; three (3) retractable pens, black and blue ink; 6-outlet wall adapter; set of cable clips(?); Vivera HP Ink cartridge (aforementioned); 2-pack camisole t-shirts, small; closet organizer; two (2) cans Silly String, yellow and black; two (2) dry-erase boards, pens missing; pack of eight (8) Maxell 90-minute blank tapes

A computer bag filled with boxed crackers, ramen noodles, heat & eat soups, microwave popcorn

One box of Fortune Cookies, taped shut, cookies stale, fortunes averaging 50% accuracy

Two doggie treats, in package

Adult-sized Banana costume, lightly used

Small refrigerator, working (needs decontamination)

Iron, lightly used (no ironing board)

Footstool, square (second thing I found, set out by the road)

Tennis racket, in good shape

Computer sub-woofer speaker, state of repair unknown

Soccer ball

Two (2) frisbees, one that lights up in the dark

SHARP brand Wireless Atomic clock, working, needed to be advanced one hour

And, as they say, much, much more...

I couldn't resist stopping in the Louisiana Life tent to snap a photo of this St. Joseph's Day altar, crafted by Linda Sampson. Then when I caught her beading bees, I had to ask. She told me that bees are a traditional Christian symbol, chosen by both St. Bernard and St. Ambrose as their symbol, to emphasize their skills of "honeyed" oratory. Also, because they're such loyal, diligent workers, bees serve as a good role model for the Christian layperson. The things you learn at the Fest!

Sampson uses the beaded bees to decorate her altar, along with the amazing bouquets of beaded flowers she crafts. Part of a lost tradition, beaded flowers are from the days before fresh flowers became available year-long, along with plastic and silk flowers. This beadworker seemed proud to be reviving this old-fashioned art, and she's crafted the yearly St. Joseph's altar at the International House for about 10 years now.

I was so excited to see that her altar had large plates of lucky fava beans, which are for the taking. I needed to replace the lucky fava bean I got from Angelo Brocato's pre-Katrina St. Joseph's Day altar, which was stolen when I was robbed this winter. Needless to say, the luck in these beans does run out at some point. At any rate, Sampson informed me that the fava bean is a crucial part of the St. Joseph's altars, which originated in Sicily after a severe famine. Not unlike Irish potatoes, the Sicilian fava bean was the only crop to grow during the famine, saving them from starvation. As St. Joseph interceded with the fava beans and broke the famine, religious Sicilians began building him altars out of thanks.

Maybe I should go home and build a Jazzfest altar, so I have a safer place to keep my new lucky bean.

Last night my neighbors had a May Day party, replete with this here maypole. It was still standing this morning, May 2nd, on the bank of Bayou St. John. I'm not sure if an old Bay City Rollers album and a plastic Chuck-E-Cheese mallet are traditional maypole decor, but they seem to work here. Maybe it's the rainbow boa that ties it all together. I should add that my neighbors, being good citizens, also planted a tree nearby.

May Day is a funny holiday, celebrated by pagans, socialists, and Catholics alike. The pole itself is part of the fertility ritual of spring, with the erect maypole representing the, um, male role in fertility. I'm not sure how the socialists got in on the act, although I guess May Day is an official holiday in many countries under the name of Workers' Day. This is why the immigrant laborers chose yesterday to rally for amnesty. For a grumpy old man's perspective on that event, visit Lou Dobbs here. (Lou Dobbs brings up President Eisenhower's designation of May 1st as "Law Day," back when people feared commie weirdos enough to try and usurp May Day. Perhaps if Ike had thought to celebrate something with a little more zip than "the law," people might actually remember this holiday.)

For the Catholics, who excel at finding reasons to celebrate, May Day coincides with the Feast of St. Joseph the Worker. This is why you'll see Catholic school girls celebrating with a maypole, just like my weirdo neighbors. That's the magic of spring: all sorts of different folks joining together around a big, rainbow-colored phallus. Happy May, everyone!

I decided to buy a Congo Square poster for myself and, after a call to my dad, an official Jazz Fest poster for the 'rents. Unfortunately I'll have to carry them around for the rest of the day, but after last year (the official posters sold out on the first day) I figured it was worth it. This also made for a really long line (as you can see) so I pulled out my trusty notebook and wrote up the experience. I noticed a lesbian couple a couple of customers ahead of me in line (they stated their preference to their line neighbors) who introduced themselves to their neighbors and discussed real estate around the city and how great it is living in the bywater since they moved to New Orleans 4 years ago.

Behind me an older woman thought I had cut her off while getting into line and muttered for a bit about rude people, but after a while the boredom (and long wait) encouraged her to strike up a conversation with me about how lines past weren't so long and the first year of Jazz Fest had free posters (this year they're $75 a pop). I guess this small talk placated her (and we started to move towards the front rather quickly) since the complaints ceased and her mood got much better. (I swear I didn't cut, I just happened to switch lines at the exact moment she got to the end of the line... OK maybe I did, sorry.)

To the right and left of me others discussed possible purchases. "I always know what I'm getting before getting in line. What should I get?" she asked. All the while the Congo Square stage was setting up for the next performance. Soon a funky african beat began and the line started to sway just a bit and the music got to us. There is no where at Jazz Fest without music.

"New Orleans, how ya sleepin'?" Barrington Levy, the godfather of Jamaican dancehall, called out to us at the House of Blues Wednesday night. Considering the ongoing turmoil of our city, it was a good question. The crowd answered by blowing marijuana smoke up into the air; that night, everyone would sleep just fine.

I'd never seen Barrington Levy before, and I must say, he don't quite fit his name. I'd call him "Buzz" or "Big Jim" instead. He's a big guy -- a hunk --tall and sturdy like a log. He speaks with a wonderfully exotic Jamaican accent, man, the real deal right there on the stage.

True to his Jamaican heritage, it wasn't long before Buzz (let's just call him that) advised the audience to use "sensimilla, not cocaine." The quasi-Rastis and the dreaded hippie chicks and the hip hoppers and the old schoolers screamed in agreement. Then he started in on "Seedless," a singalong about the type of weed Buzz likes to smoke. Seeeeed-less. The light show flashed green stars with thin points, reminiscent of the marijuana leaf icon. Not much later, Buzz waved a strand of those fake marijuana leaves (you know, the kind that stoners wear in lieu of beads at Mardi Gras?) around on stage. He did everything short of lighting a blunt on stage, despite the best efforts of some of his fans in the front row.

Despite the temptation to write him off as a marijuana clown, I admit that Buzz is a real voicemaster. He can trill like a bird and scat with a machine-gun patter. His band, the Detour Posse, laid out grooves which broke over me like waves, engulfing me in sound. I felt like I was inside the groove. And then, I'd feel as if the groove was inside me. Of course, the clouds of marijuana smoke might have had something to do with it.

Incidentally, April 20 is something of a stoner holiday, as the number 420 has gained a bizarre status in stoner culture. I've always heard that it's because 420 is the police code for marijuana possession, but that's completely unsubstantiated. So if you have the chance, give a stoner a hug today. Or better yet, buy them some cookies.

It's time for the thirteenth Blogging New Orleans podcast. Each week I record a podcast about all things New Orleans on Tuesday evening and upload it for all of you to listen to on Wednesday afternoon. Comments, questions, concerns? Comment on this post or contact us via the tips link on the site. This week I explain my tardiness with a holiday excuse, talk about the school system's future, a government speeder, and more.

• Welcome
• Passover
  • Kosher Cajun Deli
  • Dorignac's
• School System Violence
• Cynthia Hedge-Morell, speeder
• Death of a Legend, Eddie Robinson
• UNO Spring Break
• Thanks

This podcast is almost a 'betacast' and should be treated as such. We don't have theme music yet, but in the future we hope to have that and interviews with movers and shakers from around our fair city. If you would like to be interviewed on the podcast feel free to contact us via the tips page or the comments below.

SUBSCRIBE to the Blogging New Orleans podcast in iTunes
LISTEN to the podcast now
ADD the Blogging New Orleans podcast feed to your RSS aggregator

[Recovery Pen sucks the marrow from the bones of New Orleans.]

Part I: Luck.

Come Friday, it's impossible to concentrate. In this city, Friday means business "lunches" that spread fire down the throat. Holiday weekend a' comin': the Irish, the Italians, the Indians will be stumbling through the streets and you can't wait for it to begin.

Friday evening, you work out with your girls in a bohemian warehouse, where you spread mats on the floor and stretch and heave your breath through your nostrils. A baby crawls to her mother's mat and squeezes a breast: time to eat. Springtime, and everything that crawls needs feeding.

You cut the workout short to get to the first parade, stopping along the way to gather friends. Men leave messages on your phone, but you don't call back. There's no time for them now -- there are drunk Irishmen with plastic flowers to be found. Although there's always time to talk about the men, to compare wisdom with the girls who walk with you under the darkening sky. Should you date a guy who has no car? What if he has the same name as your ex-boyfriend? Should you date him then? Or is it bad luck?

The crowd at Molly's is lighter than usual. It's the sun, she's still hanging on, trying to stay awake a little while longer. No bedtime, please! But Molly's needs the dark, and finally the sun complies. People pass around plastic green derby hats emblazoned with the most Irish of names: Budweiser. Green beads catch the streetlights and twinkle merrily, bouncing on green-clad cleavage.

"Where's the parade?" a three-year old companion demands with a stamp of the foot. It's a good question, one whose answer awaits in another glass of beer. The bartender hands you the brew in a real glass, printed with a shamrock, and one of the girls cannot believe your luck. "You're not Irish, are you?" she shouts angrily. "That's why you're so fuckin' lucky. It's because you're not Irish."

"How about a beer?" you say to soothe your angry Irish friend. You try to explain to her that you make your own luck, that it's not about ethnicity but about attitude, but she don't care. She wanders off to find her a Finn in the crowd, and you join the three-year-old in collecting beads from the ground.

When the Irish parade finally rolls back up to Molly's, the riders leer down from their horse-drawn carriages. They're impotent, having already shot their wad of beads. The Storyville Stompers are still going strong, though, and push through the crowd to blast Molly's with a version of "Oh Liza" that could wake the Irish dead in Chicago.

This is going to be a good year. A leprechaun has crossed your path and handed you a token. It's a tiny gold bagel, and regardless of what the Irish have to say about it, you know the Jewish are lucky. Finding a Jewish leprechaun -- excuse me, leprecohen -- can only bring good luck. You decide to try it out, to bike off into the night and see if your bagel makes you lucky.

It does.

Part II: Catching of the Green

Although you know the Irish have a rich cultural heritage, you only really care about their cabbage. Another friend, this one of Serbian descent, brought a laundry hamper for all the cabbage. Yet, she becomes more interested in the flimsy, filmy green panties that the tuxedoed men flip around their arms. With her long hair and goofy hat, she attracts attention, and soon has a pair of panties for every day of the week.

Second in popularity, your Irish dog Maggy gets fondled by all the drunks. With her red-brown coat and her green bow, she scores a pile of plastic flowers and shamrock beads. You pin her with a "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" badge, but she still kisses first. No one doubts this dog is Irish, with her merry eyes and ready tongue.

About four hours and hundreds of drunk Irishmen later, the floats finally roll into view. Fuck the beads -- let's see some cabbage! Slaw season's upon us, boys!

Once the cabbage comes, you want potatoes and onions and carrots to go with it. Maggy's already got the corner on the carrots, chasing the stubby roots as they roll along the ground. Strangers laugh at your dog's carrot-lust, how she gobbles them down, leaving nary an orange shred. To keep a carrot for yourself, you have to hide it in your purse.

But you catch moon pies and cracker packets and stuffed shamrocks. You catch a small box of Lucky Charms cereal, and about three seconds later, a forty-pound clump of beads conks you on the cabeza. When you come to, you think of your Irish friend who disputes Irish luck. Not much later, a float breaks down in front of you, due to a blown tire. Lucky charms, indeed! How come the Irish parade is the only one that rolls with a trailer bed full of spare tires?

At the parade's end, there is a rumbling of wagon wheels. A flame-haired Irishman stands at the helm of his wagon, urging his horses to trot faster. Their eyes bulge at the crowd as they pull him and the cannon behind him, its barrel pointed for battle. It's a thrill, this eighteenth-century wind gusting by. It's not long before the police steer this spectacle off the parade route, but still. How good it feels to see drunken recklessness, in all of its Irish springtime splendor.

Part III: White Lady, Big City

Something about the Mardi Gras Indians makes you want to drink champagne, and lots of it. It's all the feathers and the beadwork, like walking into a cloud.

Silly with bubbles, you go to a part of Uptown (or is it Central City?) where no one lives anymore. Indians thunder down the street -- red and pink and green and white and yellow and black. Their bead scenes show red-men in battles, riding horses through rivers and raising tomahawks. It's a curious sight, to be sure, black men in Indian warrior costumes, and even more curious to consider that they sew these costumes themselves. You're convinced that the only thing better than watching Indians parade would be to sit in one of their sewing circles. Do they bitch about how they've gotten too fat for last year's costume? Do they curse when they poke themselves with the needle?

In the street, they mostly pose for pictures, although the good ones will shout and dance and butt into other Indians, giving the folks a good show. This is a black folks' crowd, except for all the white people with cameras. Culture vultures, is the term for people like you, people who don't really belong but still show up. Although vultures only prey on dead things, and these Indians ain't dead. Through wind and flood and poverty, they still travel along their war path.

They parade past the empty projects, and your heart aches for this deep-down sad city with its fleeting triumphs. In the sun, the Indians' colors are too bright to bear, and even brighter in front of the dull, dead buildings.

But the parade don't stop there, at the dead center; it goes to the park -- forget the name -- where you are a tiny white speck in a sea of black. The crowd is gorgeous in spring colors, perfectly made up, carrying puppies in purses and holding pitbulls on leashes. You feel shabby. Even the dogs are cleaner than you are at this point.

Smells of marijuana and barbeque mingle together in the air; an Indian band plays in the distance. Indian costumes have landed in the grass, and you politely walk around them, observing the war scenes. You really want to lie down with them, roll over the beads, put your face in the feathers. Breathe in the springtime, pulse with the lust that keeps on coming.

Always in search of culture on a Sunday afternoon, I met some friends yesterday for the Super Sunday parade uptown. The weather was perfect, hundreds of people lined the streets, and second-lined through the streets, with the Mardi Gras Indians.

The masked Indians must have been feeling the heat, but they didn't let it show. My friends and I all got a little sunburned, but after seeing tv footage of New York, where snow apparently still covers the ground, I was grateful for the sunshine.

It goes without saying that the costumes were spectacular, colorful and elaborate. Even a few dozen kids had their own outfits, little versions of the adult tribes.

Spectators brought out their shiniest rides, too, from fat-tired crotch-rocket motorcycles to polished custom sedans, with huge rims and vertical doors that probably cost as much as the car itself to install. One guy parked on the neutral ground on ML King Blvd. had a sleek Mercedes with an impressive sound system and three creepy dolls in what looked like a custom rumble seat (see photo). It was like an open-air car show for people who spend A LOT of money on their cars.

I don't know much about the history of the Mardi Gras Indians, but I like what I've been told: as I understand it, the tradition relates to blacks and native Americans coming together as a reaction to the white supremacy that kept both groups on the bottom of the social hierarchy. The fact that their resistance has taken on a life of its own, and survives despite all obstacles, is pretty reassuring. It's a link in a human chain connecting past and present, and although it may have started as an act of resistance, it carries on because it is joyous and vibrant. I got a huge kick out of it, sunburn and all.

[Terra Nola documents the long-distance love affair between a New Yorker and New Orleans.]

Well, while the rest of my bloggingneworleans colleagues were out partying your booties off having a good time both in New Orleans and elsewhere, lonesome little me stayed home. I should say, lonesome pregnant giant me.

First I checked out and attempted to respond to the fabulous comments from those who share my agony and ecstasy over Mardi Gras and New Orleans in general. Most folks had very nice things to say and, while some of us do remember the headaches caused by Mardi Gras madness, most of us miss New Orleans if we're not there to enjoy it.

Actually, before that I watched Rachel Ray of Food Network fame make a muffuletta salad and some rather tasty looking fried shrimp poboys. Then I considered eating the tiny piece of king cake I commandeered from my colleagues earlier today for my husband, who quite simply ruined all my Mardi Gras plans by having statistics class Tuesday night. Do the people at Baruch not get that you can't have class on Tuesday nights because it interferes with Mardi Gras? Whatever.

Rachel nearly inspired me to make vegetarian jambalaya until I realized I had no rice and basically none of the other ingredients necessary to do it up right. Instead I dethawed some frozen broccoli and some tater tots and moved on. I may get excited enough to whip up the jambalaya this weekend, pregnancy brain permitting.

After dinner and the Food Network I opted to start writing this column, which is basically about doing nothing on Mardi Gras, as opposed to everyone else I know whom I suspect is having a grand old time without me. I have this one long-time friend purportedly in the New Orleans area for a family event that was supposed to get jiggy with it for me since I'm so pregnant I can't even tie my own shoelaces. I left her a message but have not heard back, which means she is either not in New Orleans or is and is having an immensely good time.

For the sheer torture of it I checked out what was happening around NYC with regard to Mardi Gras and turned up paltry little. From what I gather from commenters on other columns, cool towns like Natchez, Mississippi and Mobile, Alabama have Mardi Gras events that rival those in New Orleans. During my post-tater tot delirium I fantasized about hitting all three MG's next year, although that fantasy may never be fully realized given I'll have a one-year old and my husband, who is reluctant to participate in Mardi Gras festivities anyway, in tow.

In an act of desperation, I attempted to consider getting up off the couch and putting in The Big Easy. I generally refer to that movie as The Big Cheesy considering how stereotypical it is in essentially every way possible. Tonight, however, all alone in my apartment with no one to entertain me besides my unborn child--who, by the way, LOVES king cake--I was all too willing to give in to this guilty pleasure.

My preference would've been to watch Down By Law, which is not only a great film set in New Orleans but also in an odd turn features Ellin Barkin. My multi-tasking abilities aren't quite what they once were, however, and I forgot to Netflix it. Come to think of it, I guess it says something about me that I own The Big Easy but not Down By Law. Not sure what is being said, exactly, but I'm also not really listening.

I also thought about attempting to be more literary and picking up my so-new-it-doesn't-even-have-fingerprints- smudging-it copy of Gumbo Ya-Ya. Then I remembered how dense it is and how difficult at times it is for me to ingratiate myself into the language. All the king cake in the world isn't going to muster up enough of my gumption to pick that thing up until after this baby is born.

And speaking yet again of king cake, the tiny piece of which I did save for my husband because he truly is a king (aside from the part where he abandoned me for statistics), I would like to report that once again, as with every year, Randazzo's delivered my delicious medium-sized king cake in perfect time (just after 10:00AM) on Mardi Gras. People are still amazed that I go to all the trouble of having a king cake shipped to NYC from New Orleans, but I wouldn't dream of doing otherwise. It would be unconstitutional.

Despite these available if not dazzling options, I spent most of the night writing about what I wasn't doing and thinking about what I'd be doing the following year. I also spent about 30 seconds fantasizing about naming my son Lafitte, after the pirate (blacksmith) but only as a joke. My son is no pirate. There are no pirates in NYC.

I also considered for a few moments the clear plastic storage crate filled with multitudes of beads from Mardi Gras past. Over the years I've sorted through them and given away (or tossed, I hate to admit) many of the lesser beads, but have always held on to the better ones. I assume I'll come up with an actual use for them someday, but, until that moment of clarity, they will remain in their clear plastic crate begging me to stop worrying so much and just have a good time.

As of Wednesday, February 23rd most folks, myself included, tend to do at least one of three things:

1. Recover from Mardi Gras to include sleeping all day and enjoying a greasy breakfast between 4:00 and 5:00 followed by more sleep and possibly some light beer once the sun sets.

2. Planning for Mardi Gras 2008 to include getting hotel reservations and preparing costumes for storage until next year.

3. Planning for Jazz Fest 2007 (eh, I heard Steely Dan is playing) to include getting hotel and airfare and, if you're me, once again attempting to figure out the concoction of perfection that is rose mint tea.

If you are me, and only I am me (as far as I know) I'll be found working out the logistics of #2 and part of #3. That tea still eludes me.

Above is a picture of my Muses haul including a custom comic book drawn by a local artist, cups, beer cozy, custom drawstring bag, shoe bracelet, and more. We were selective during the parade because we don't have kids and knew these throws are likely to just take up space. I knew we were going to try for as much cool stuff as possible. Is there anything you told yourself you were going to catch?

Zulu Haul after the jump

Next up, my Zulu haul. I managed to grab a small coconut, some custom beads, cups, and more. Here my only goal was one coconut (and to stay awake for the parade). Luckily since I caught Zulu after the turn off Canal onto Basin Street I was able to see them at 11:00 am instead of the gawd-awful early time those you uptown caught it. Unfortunately I made a judgement call and took a short rest afterwards and missed Rex. Up next, what to do with the Haul.

It's time for the seventh Blogging New Orleans podcast. Each week I record a podcast about all things New Orleans on Tuesday evening and upload it for all of you to listen to on Wednesday afternoon. Comments, questions, concerns? Comment on this post or contact us via the tips link on the site. This week is a little short due the after effects of the holiday.

• Introduction
• Meeting of courts of Rex and Comus on PBS
• Best Parades
  • Ceasar
  • Krewe de Vieux
  • Krewe d-Etat
  • Muses
  • Barkus
• The disappointment of Endymion
• Strangeness of Mardi Gras
  • lack of people
  • non-Bourbon-St-packedness
• What I did Mardi Gras day
• Lent
• St. Patrick's Day and St. Joseph's Day Parades
• What you giving up for Lent?

This podcast is almost a 'betacast' and should be treated as such. We don't have theme music yet, but in the future we hope to have that and interviews with movers and shakers from around our fair city. If you would like to be interviewed on the podcast feel free to contact us via the tips page or the comments below.

SUBSCRIBE to the Blogging New Orleans podcast in iTunes
LISTEN to the podcast now
ADD the Blogging New Orleans podcast feed to your RSS aggregator

The Noisician Coalition presents the Krewe of Joyful Noise tonight at midnight and I got the exclusive rundown with Matt Vaughn-Black, the leader and co-founder of the Noise Parade. The Krewe of Joyful Noise is an unofficial walking krewe that started 4 years ago with only 7 people. The parade walks a short route around the edge of the French Quarter and the Marigny. Each member has a custom musical instrument created by Matt Vaughn-Black, hence the name. Of course, krewe members aren't required to use the homemade instruments, some even bring their own from home. Matt says he started created instruments the first year and every year adds more to his collection. When I called him earlier today to find out more about the parade he was repairing some of the instruments that were used (and abused) by the Krewe of Joyful Noise during their special appearance in Bacchus last night. For some reason (that will be explained later tonight) he was adjusting some large heavy springs for these completely original noise makers.

He also says every year the krewe has been growing in size. Last year they were up to 40 members and this year they expect at least 50 to turn out. Unfortunately this means the cost of the krewe has gone up as well and Matt is now asking each Krewe of Joyful Noise member to donate between 10 and 20 bucks to help pay to create and maintain the instruments.

What's the route? The krewe meets up at the Whirling Dervish on Decatur. Walk up to the French Market. Then down to Esplanade and up to Frenchmen. Now quickly down Frenchmen (the NOPD will probably have just finished clearing the street of the last Lundi Gras night walking parade, the Krewe de Poo), speed is of essence since there is a slim possibility of arrest for participating in an UNofficial parade, but don't worry, Matt's got every krewe member's back. Then they head back down to Decatur and down to Flanagan's on St. Philip for a 45 minute 'concert,' drink and bathroom stop. From there the krewe will walk down Royal and over to One Eyed Jacks on Toulouse where the band Matt Vaughn-Black normally plays with, The Bingo Show, normally plays. There will be another extended music, drink and bathroom stop for 20-45 minutes. From there back to Decatur and that's it.

Matt Vaughn-Black says this parade is like a gallery show of his work. Since every instrument is custom made they all help make this one of the best examples of original New Orleans performance art in the city. Also, you'll notice the krewe is clothed in red and black, the official Noise Parade colors. Why red and black? Matt told me there really isn't a reason other than they are his favorite colors.

Be sure to check out this first parade of the season tonight at midnight. The best places to stand are all along Decatur, at Flanagan's and at One Eyed Jack's. See you tonight.

Image of the Noise Parade by Miss Malaprop via Flickr

Seething with anticipation over whom will reign supreme at the Crescent City Farmer's Market in their annual King Cake Contest? Well, fret not--the winner will be announced tomorrow on CCFM's website. Cakes entered into yesterday's Downtown/Central Business District Market were judged by special guest judges from Women of the Storm, a diverse group of local women whose lives were altered by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita who are intent on changing things in Nola.

I personally would not be able to judge such a thing. I love king cake and consider myself a connoisseur but would find it impossible to pick one king cake over another. Heck, I even thought the king cake mailed to my office a day late tasted pretty darned good.

Technically speaking, shouldn't all king cakes taste pretty much the same? I guess not if these "celebrity" judges have elected a winner. I tried to make a king cake once for a Mardi Gras-themed fundraiser but opted to use brown sugar instead of white because I was too lazy to run out and get any. Needless to say the final product resembled Le Brea Tar Pits more than it looked like king cake. It tasted about as good as it looked, and I ate it anyway. I may have been the only one, but I ate it.

If you're feeling game, I've attached CCFM's king cake recipe here. I would not suggest making substitutions.

Your name is a household word. Your picture appears weekly in the tabloids. You've entered that special race of humans that no longer has to worry about money, or fame, or notoriety: your life is heaven itself. Still, you've never been to Mardi Gras and want to see what all the fuss is about. How do you keep a low profile amongst the throngs of people? Read on...

1.) Firstly, you'll need an oxygen mask to breathe our foul air. Just ask Bernie Mac. No, I'm kidding--the air is just fine down here, and much easier to breathe than if you decided to waste your winter break skiing in the Aspen mountains with the other beautiful people.

2.) You will need a costume mask, however. This ain't California, where dressing down and donning shades is enough to deceive the crowd. Many, many people use Mardi Gras as a time to hunt for celebrities, and if you could have seen the look on Frankie Muniz's face when he rode in Endymion back in 2001, well, you'd have thought that boy had spied the Devil Himself in the crowd. I thought it was kinda cute, his terrified little face, but take it from me: you don't want anyone recognizing you.

3.) If you're extra paranoid about bumping into besmirched, beer-stinking undesirables, bring a hula hoop to the parade. I had one out at Halloween one year and it was a great tool for keeping people away. And so festive!

4.) Take advantage of being amongst real people and bring a tape recorder to the parade. We here in New Orleans are so tired of actors mangling our accents. The only way to get it right, short of moving to the bayou, is to listen hard and long.

5.) As I said, this ain't California, so bring all of your organically-grown macrobiotics to town with you, or arrange to have them flown in. There's a chance that you might find a few odds and ends for your Hollywood Diet at Whole Foods, but I wouldn't hold my breath.

6.) And your toxic cleanse. You may think you can avoid New Orleans food, but you can't. One time, I sat a table away from John Stamos dining at Jacque-Imo's with some buddies. When the waitress brought their food, he took one look at what his friends were eating and sent his special salad back. She returned with a plate heaped with fried seafood. Bring whatever mystic drinks or new-age enemas you need to combat eating Popeye's and king cake for five days straight.

7.) Don't forget your masseuse! Wearing those beads can be a real bitch for your neck, shoulders, and upper back. Hell, if I could afford a full-time masseuse, I'd have him working on me at the neutral ground.

8.) You're famous, you don't need to sit in traffic going to or coming from the parades. It's just not necessary, as New Orleanians are have gotten used to seeing helicopters randomly landing around the city. So bring yours: you can make an easy getaway and hardly anyone will notice.

9.) On Fat Tuesday, everyone's a star glittering in their own special universe*. You'll be shocked and amazed at what us Louisiana folk can put together in the name of Mardi Gras. Coupled with your successful bout of anonymity, you might start to lose your sense of identity. I totally understand. So bring a mirror to remind yourself that you have a highly-prized, well-insured face that's recognized by billions of people the world over.

*Jesus, I almost forgot. You're rich and well-connected--bring drugs! With all the generous relief efforts in the Crescent City, not one nonprofit has provided us with this staple. In the interest of efficiency, go ahead and bring them to my house; I'll take care of the distribution.

You've come from lands near and far to see the Mardi Gras, and I can guarantee you that it will be unlike anything you've ever experienced. As a wizened resident (can I say local? i've only been here 9 years), here's my advice on your must-haves:

1.) Bring a big, sturdy backpack for your loot. Even if you think you don't care about beads, you will change your mind the moment you hear the marching band. My first MG here, I had a northerner punk-rock boyfriend who thought that fighting for beads was the stupidest thing ever. By the end of his first parade, he was pushing grannies to the ground for the plastic necklaces. You'll want a bag, and something easy to carry.

2.) Get you a How Ya Gonna Clap? Basically, this is a coozie attached to a string that goes around your neck. With two hands, you've got twice the chance of catching beads. If you put your drink on the ground, someone will knock it over.

3.) Not only do you want to wear comfortable shoes, but they should be dark as well. Even for Fat Tuesday, when you want to look hot for the crowd, wear comfy shoes or you will regret it for the rest of your podriatic life. Spend five minutes on the St. Charles neutral ground and you'll know why dark shoes are best.

4.) Having tissues or a handkerchief is one of those essentials that everyone forgets about. Again, the dust on St. Charles neutral ground will have you hacking up all sorts of delightful things!

5.) If you don't already use a flask, get one immediately. Within a mile and a half of any given parade route, drink prices double, and you'll need your cash for Popeye's and other hangover remedies.

6.) This may be the most important essential of them all: you'll want to buddy up with a local, because New Orleanians are the friendliest people on earth. Plus, many of them know of clean bathrooms nearby. They'll fill you in on good parade spots, cool parties, and how to eat crawfish. Don't be afraid, cher--locals love nothing more than introducing newbies to their city.

7.) It's a little-known fact that revelers in costume are 50% less likely to be mugged. My source on this escapes me, but crime prevention aside, costuming for Fat Tuesday changes your whole perspective on Mardi Gras--be whoever you want: we'll love ya regardless!

8.) Even the most buttoned-down businessman will find himself turning an empty cup and some gravel into a musical instrument when the brass bands pass by, so spare yourself the trouble and pick up a shaker, a tambourine, or even a cowbell before Fat Tuesday. Mardi Gras is magical because the people become the parade, and you'll want to be the parade with panache.

9.) I know it's a no-brainer, but check your aspirin supply ahead of time. Because if you're well enough to get to a Rite-Aid or Walgreens on Ash Wednesday, you better come back next year and try again.

It's time for the sixth Blogging New Orleans podcast. Each week I record a podcast about all things New Orleans on Tuesday evening and upload it for all of you to listen to on Wednesday afternoon. Comments, questions, concerns? Comment on this post or contact us via the tips link on the site.

• Mardi Gras parades and routes
  • park on esplanade, stand on Canal
• Valentine's Day
  • expensive
  • middle (dinner)
  • cheap (picnic in the park)
  • cheap (romantic at home)
• politics
  • Blanco and Vitter fight
  • Allen Leone's sign (Politician and Idiot, not Ambassador)
    
• trash cans
• mardi gras memory
  • bourbon street really moves you

This podcast is almost a 'betacast' and should be treated as such. We don't have theme music yet, but in the future we hope to have that and interviews with movers and shakers from around our fair city. If you would like to be interviewed on the podcast feel free to contact us via the tips page or the comments below.

SUBSCRIBE to the Blogging New Orleans podcast in iTunes
LISTEN to the podcast now
ADD the Blogging New Orleans podcast feed to your RSS aggregator