Por Quois Samedi Gras?

Since moving to New Orleans some years ago, I have always anxiously awaited the arrival of the Mardi Gras season. What a strange and mystifying sight for a Southern California girl to see! This past Mardi Gras promised to be the best one yet since I had turned 21 four months prior and I rent an apartment near the parade routes. And even though I am not technically a “local”, I consider myself one since I have mastered the unique New Orleans vernacular, e.g. – “Where y’at dawlin’?” -- and have taught myself the trickiest side streets in the city. Yes, this was going to be a truly magical and memorable Mardi Gras.
The Carnival season, for me, kicked off on the Friday night before the big Endymion parade. I was in attendance of the Krewe De’Tat parade uptown, accompanied by friends and my trusty cooler packed with goodies and wine coolers. Our spot, coveted by everyone behind us, was a prime location for catching treasured throws and dancing to the high school bands’ drum-line. All was going exactly as planned; everyone was drinking their massive drinks, dancing in the streets, and catching their sparkling beads.
I waved at a passing float furiously (this is my trademark attempt at catching decent beads and other terrific trinkets) when a masked man on the float pointed me out of the crowd and chucked a treasure right at me. I jumped up, caught it and waived my trophy in the air for all around me to see that I had been the ‘chosen one’. At first, I hadn’t the slightest clue what the object was, but on further exanimation, I discovered that I had not received a treasure at all; I was thrown a small pile of brown, plastic poop. A man had picked me out of a crowd and threw poop at me. I was shocked. Was there something about me that screamed, “Hey Mistah, throw me some poop!”?
In my mind, I started to question what had exactly happened. Had it all been just a bad dream? Was the throw meant for the drunken man with the doubloons sign next to me? Was this some kind of a hidden camera TV show segment? Or was the man on the float really a monkey in disguise? I began to obsessively ponder these questions, so much so that it compelled me to do a little research into the subject of fecal throwing.
Apparently, it has been observed by animal behaviorists and scientists that several species of monkeys engage in angry activity, such as throwing their own fecal matter. Although there is no specific biological reason why some monkeys perform this bizarre behavior, it is suggested that when monkeys become upset at their surroundings, they will grasp a pile of their own waste and throw it around their cage (if in captivity).
According to one an online article I found on homecare of domesticated monkeys, the author suggests that monkeys should be kept in diapers at all times and changed often in order to prevent fecal attacks. Nevertheless, I came across several joke websites that have apparently been created in honor of this phenomenon of shit chucking. In addition to this, there was a rock group, Monkey Throw Feces, that began playing in the early 1970’s yet they disbanded after only one show. Their songs have been made available by some sites to download.
“Don’t take it personal Meredith.” “I’m sure the man was toasted.” “It’s Mardi Gras, lighten up!” These are some of the things people have told me in recent days in order to appease my disgust, however, they were not the recipient of an airborne poop package.
And things only grew worse from there. My Endymion experience the next night was even more hideous than the novelty crap. A series of unlucky events befell on the group I was with. We stood in a horrendous spot below towers of drunkards atop ladders to watch the parade. Bags of beads were hurled at our faces and rib cages, subsequently knocking the wind out of me. Our beer grew warm and stale, and was no longer worth drinking. Our moods had gone from elation to mere frustration in just a short time, and, to the left of us, a large banner waiving in the Mid-City air read ‘Samedi Gras Fest’. My once fun-loving, care free mother remarked, “Samedi Gras?! How many Gras days in New Orleans can there be!?”
The experience was frighteningly sobering and after enduring hours of the smell of burnt hog dogs and people aroma and 14 renditions of Mardi Gras Mambo, we decided to trek home with our heads down to the ground, dodging human waste and wading through filth.
I had become disillusioned, no longer seeing the true magic of Mardi Gras. The few strands of beads around my neck were no longer considered prized riches. Instead, they were just simple, plastic beads that would be thrown out in the days following the end of Carnival. I was heartbroken. I had done the inevitable—I had ceased to love Mardi Gras.
Sometime after the parade, in between midnight and some ridiculous hour, I decided to run errand before the early morning Sunday rush to the parades. On the way, I was slowed down by flashing lights, crowds of police officers and other official-looking-people. As I slowly crept forward, I glanced to the left of me and saw a man lying stiff in the middle of the road without his shirt on. His head was gaped open, bleeding profusely on the ground, surrounded not by chalk, but by broken strands of beads strewn on the pavement.
The wind was knocked out of me again and in my breathless state, I was thankful for my handful of cheap throws and my infamous pile of poo, which, by that point, all my closest friends and family had heard about. Moreover, I was thankful that this Mardi Gras had only suffocated my spirits and had not cost me my life.
I came to learn in the following days from local news reports that two men were hit and killed by a car. I wondered if they were on their way back from the same parade I had gone to. I wondered if they thought that catching beads and drinking beer would not be the last thing that they would do in this world, and, if by some divine intervention they did know, I wondered why they wished to spend their last few moments on Earth at a lousy Mardi Gras parade.
In the end, the feaux feces pile resides in a large bag amongst a pile of other throws. I may throw it away someday soon with all the other meaningless Mardi Gras paraphernalia I acquired this year. Looking back, my Mardi Gras could have been a lot worse; at least the plastic poop has brought laughter and a story that can be retold for years to come.
For now, I’ll be busy looking into plans for a thinner Mardi Gras next year: leaving the state for a long weekend vacation. Catching poop and lousy beads just isn’t my idea of les bon temps after all.