“Right Place, Wrong Time“
“It was almost like a free-floating planet on an endless course to party heaven.” On the Magic Mushroom ride to New Orleans, another musical town that knows how to party.
((( Dr. John )))
Mardi Gras trek a real trip.
— psilocybin that is.
By Jay Gayoso
Alligator Staff Writer
NEW ORLEANS — We were somewhere on Canal Street just outside the French Quarter when the effects of drinking my first Hurricane started washing through my skull. It was a typical Mardi Gras moment. We were waiting for a parade to pass us by so we could childishly catch some plastic beads and aluminum doubloons. A cool breeze and the mixture of different alcohols in my system caused my face to tingle … Ahh, I thought, the true Mardi Gras party head couldn’t be far off now.
“If this parade doesn’t get here soon, I’m going for another Hurricane,” said Howard, one of three friends who drove with me from Gainesville for this year’s Mardi Gras celebration. Although there were no Hurricanes for several blocks, the idea was completely rational, At least for Howard. After all, he had ingested more than a handful of psilocybin mushrooms about two hours before. He was getting a little thirsty.
Elliot, our host in New Orleans, had purchased a quarter-ounce of mushrooms for 40 bucks. “Jay, you just gotta do them,” he said in his New York accent. “You’ll get so damn creative that you won’t even have to leave my apartment to write about the wildness of Mardi Gras.”
I didn’t doubt him for a moment, especially since he was laughing hysterically at how a stoplight went from yellow-to-green-to-red-back-to-yellow-then-green…Then there were all those people just walking the streets like ants crawling around on their farm…Did they know how stupid they looked as they scurried along? Elliot was proud of his far-reaching questions.
“I wonder how many cops get stoned before they come to work?”‘ he asked himself loudly.
Personally, I was still trying to recover from our nine-and-a-half-hour drive. We drove in my girlfriend’s four-door silver Bullet. I gave up the driving chores early so I could enjoy some beer-hoisting with Howard and Matt, our fourth travel member.
We were all in search of the Great American Escape – a non-stop party where the death rate among brain cells grossly surpasses the birth of new ones. That’s why we were driving toward Mardi Gras – a sinful, tacky, grand, classy, drunken festival designed by people who like to lobotomize brains for other people who enjoy participating in subhuman rituals.
Actually, Mardi Gras means “Fat Tuesday,” and was originally (believe it or not) related to the season of Lent.
Nowadays, most people party for about a week. On Ash Wednesday, some of the more penitent actually go to church, where they receive a cross of ashes on their foreheads. (Of course; during the last 250 years, most people have forgotten Mardi Gras’ more religious overtones.)
Matt, having lived in Central Florida for all of his 23 years, was the only southerner in our group of celebrants.
“There’s one good thing about holy holidays,” he said in a slow southern drawl, “it’s the best time to drink Millers religiously.”
The comment didn’t make much sense, but throughout our expedition we took Matt’s geographic handicap into consideration. We knew that there were going to be certain elements of city life that he would find difficult to grasp, especially after eating a handful of magic mushrooms.
On Saturday night a red glow rose above New Orleans as people began to line the street in anticipation of yet another parade. All the parades basically are the same at Mardi Gras (except different organizations sponsor each one.) Millions of prized plastic beads are wildly thrown into the throngs by masked people riding on floats that are shaped like boats. If you’re not looking (or conscious, a flying doubloon – which is about twice the size of a half-dollar – can slap off your face.
“I used to do acid and go watch the Grateful Dead,” a strange man who lacked any noticeable earlobes screamed in my direction as the parade whizzed by. “This is ten times better. Ya know, I have beads from six parades so far…I’m trying to collect about 400 for my friends in Wisconsin.” I really wasn’t interested in this lobeless fungoid’s life story, but I think the Hurricane juice in my brain urged me to question further. He seemed to be at least some form of mammal.
“Are you on acid now?”
“Naw,” he said wiping saliva from his chin, *I get too jittery when I do acid now. I start thinking that there’s this squadron of hovering dragons nesting in my hair. So I just keep scratching my head all the time and people think I’m weird or something.”
“Why’s that?”
“They’re just uptight or something. There’s no way to measure what’s good or bad in life. So I don’t see why some people do it. This is Mardi Gras – pushing the partying to the limit. It’s beautiful to see all these people having fun.” There wasn’t much I could say, nor was there anything that 1 wanted to say. It was a hell of a sermon from such a grime-monger. Luckily, it was nothing that couldn’t easily be forgotten with a few powerful sips from my 20-ounce glass.
The real partying began after the last float pelted the crowd with armfuls of beads. That’s when everyone flowed off to Bourbon Street, the heart of the French Quarter party scene.
The Quarter, which in quieter moments, has a quaint, continental feel, was filled with gutter to gutter humanity mixed with trash and horse excrement. The pungent scent of dung and Jack Daniels that settled over the scene was the final ingredient to unabated hedonism.
My three mushroomed friends were floating in and out of reality with little notice of which state of confusion they were entering.
“I’m not feeling too good,” Matt said, trying his best to hide his geographic handicap by talking fast. “Excuse me while I check if this guy needs to change his tire.” After a few spits, and grunts, Matt finished adding his share of debris to the streets. “Let’s go get a couple of Hurricanes to settle our stomachs,” he said.
I was all for the idea. After all, we were living the Great American Escape and I only was on my second drink. It was kind of like being a virgin in hell – I quickly bought a 20-ounce beer to hold me until we got to Pat O’Briens, where they make good Hurricanes for $3.
Hurricanes are deceptive reality preventers. The rude mind-weakening potion is a combination of fruit juices, rums and anything else that might be lying around. It defies classification as a truly drinkable beverage, but its paralyzing effects have caused many a Mardi Gras visitor to quiver with irrationality after just two long chugs.
After my third such quaff, everything seemed to make sense around me. Two fat people, each weighing more than 300 pounds, were embraced in a massive face-sucking kiss — it seemed beautiful at that moment, even though they both were men. My mushroomed friends were chanting in dialects I first traced to a lower form of cow mooing, but I still seemed to understand them. By this time, every language was my language.
“I’m gonna go find a bathroom,” Matt said with an eerie, vacant stare. Bathrooms are very difficult to find at Mardi Gras, especially since most restaurants and bars won’t let you near a restroom area without a note from the president of the United States.
Forty-five minutes later we noticed that Matt had not returned. “I bet some shyster took advantage of him because of his obvious geographic misfortune,” I said. I wasn’t really worried, although it would be nearly impossible to find him unless he found us first.
Howard was so moved by the gravity of the situation that he had an uncontrollable urge to relieve himself. I decided that it would be stupid to lose him too, so I instructed him to seize an opportunity at a nearby bush.
“Are you sure it’s okay here?” he asked as he danced in place uncontrollably.
“Sure, I would do it if I had to go.”
Moments later he was irrigating the bush. “Oh my god, what a pervert,” a lady said as she passed by. Although he was embarrassed, Howard laughed without restraint.
“Jay, this is the worst thing about Mardi Gras — trying to piss in private.”
I looked down at my drink. There were a couple of sips left but I really didn’t need it anymore. I had been operating at an altered consciousness level for more than an hour, and I kept getting this urge to sing When the Saints Go Marching In.
“Oh when the Saints…Oh when the Saints…Oh when the Saints go marching in…bom, pi-bom, bom, bom, bom, bombom… When the Saints go marching in.”
Boy, was I tired. Time for bed. The French Quarter, of course, never sleeps. It’s open ’til the last drunk slips off his barstool. Matt had finally returned from what he called “a five-minute stroll,” and our partying pretty much seemed over.
Weird visions of riots and massive human revolt played through my Hurricane-drenched brain as I walked through Bourbon Street for the last time. I wasn’t going to stay until Fat Tuesday, I’d had enough. At that moment I really thought there was no future or past to the wild scene in the quarter.
It was almost like a free-floating, planet on an endless course to party heaven.
—30—
road trips
A BEACH FOR ALL SEASONS (COCOA BEACH)
ENERGY DANCE (SEBASTIAN INLET SURF)
ENERGY DANCE (SEBASTIAN INLET) ALT.
SAIL AWAY (FORT LAUDERDALE KEY WEST)
IN THE PRESENCE OF THE POPE (JOHN PAUL II IN NASSAU)
SUMMER IN THE CITY
NYC (A FACELESS CITY)
SATURDAY IN THE PARK
MARDI GRAS MAGIC (TRIP TO NEW ORLEANS)
CEDAR KEY (BACK IN FLORIDA TIME)
MIDNIGHT LIGHTNING (TURTLES IN THE MOONLIGHT)
I’LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
